Reflection
by ScribeOfRED
Summary: The city of Kingston. One year ago, an earthquake. Now, fires and explosions. History isn't repeating, but lives still hang in the balance, and the Tracys are a single wrong step away from losing one of their own.
1. Worry Beneath Embers and Ash

**An old project the ridiculously talented spacespirit and I wrote together. Figured it's probably time it sees the light of day. All the credit goes to spacespirit for putting forth the huge effort of writing the first draft—this story would still be an outline were it not for her.**

* * *

Today was the sort of day Virgil dreaded.

The classroom door loomed before him, and he took a second to regain his breath, to slow his racing heart, to brace himself for a sight he wasn't ready to see.

"Virgil, you have to keep moving," John ordered, his voice so sharp and clear that Virgil couldn't resist checking over his shoulder to ensure his older brother wasn't standing in the dark hallway yawning behind him. Implanted comm chips in each ear were more convenient than the external models, but they always left Virgil with the unsettling sensation that the speaker was inside his head. "Seismic activity's increasing again, you have less than five minutes before the next—"

"I know, John," he growled, but he didn't move. He needed this respite, just a few moments to himself, because this was _really_ starting to get to him.

At least six heat signatures. That's what John said his scans indicated. Six children depending on him were behind this classroom door.

Six who were still alive, anyway.

Virgil bit back his anxiety, swallowed it down to a place he wouldn't unlock until he was home. There were lives at stake right now, and that was what he did: he saved lives.

When he managed to gather enough strength to push the door open, he stepped into unnatural silence: an eerie, undisturbed void that chilled him to the bone. The familiar tang of craft paint lingered in the air, a hint of comfort—and then the stench of melted plastic and a cloud of thick, foul dust hit the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to repress his gag reflex.

With power to the entire campus severed, the only illumination came from a series of narrow windows along the top of the far wall. They were less than adequate in this situation, so Virgil powered up his searchlight.

Its dazzling beam reunited him with a chaos he'd seen too often today. Everything was on the ground: textbooks, splintered wood from shattered shelving, stationary, paintbrushes, torn canvases. Long fluorescent tubes had shaken loose of their fixtures, fissuring glass over every surface—concerning, but the true horror gaped above his head. Half of the roof had caved in, leaving only the skeletal remains of the ceiling. Beams angled, balancing precariously on one another like a game of pick-up sticks. Chunks of insulation hung from the infrastructure like shredded flesh, vicious pink against the torn innards of the classroom.

Virgil wasn't prone to nausea caused by circumstances either in the field or by off-duty pursuits, which was in part why he extended his medical training beyond their required courses, but today his stomach rolled.

He found himself staring at the motley collection of paintings on the walls. Uneven gaps stretched between them where most had fallen, shaken loose by violent tremors. Only a few pictures remained, hanging askew but clinging tenaciously: beacons of hope, filled with creativity and imagination and _life_. It was a display of vivacious expression that Virgil understood at his core. These kids painted their future—a future they might never see if he didn't move fast.

He hoped they were still alive.

"Less than four minutes," John's soft but urgent voice informed the gray matter between his ears.

Virgil shook himself free of morose thoughts and eased his way forward, circumventing the carnage with an ease afforded by too many hours spent navigating uncertain terrain. Even with the aid of his searchlight, he still couldn't see anyone, and he almost gave into the temptation of asking for an update. Only the echo of John's voice and the way it was brittle with stress that never made itself known until he was approaching the threshold of how much he could keep track of at once made Virgil hesitate.

His stomach knotted, hard. If they were trapped beneath the rubble, he might not be able to save them in time—but he had to try.

"I'm from International Rescue," he called in a low, practiced tone that came out calmer than he felt. "I know you're afraid, but I promise everything's going to be all right. I'm here to get you out."

The crunch of glass under his boots wasn't the response he wanted, and he battled against the firming certainty that his worries were going to be confirmed. What if—what if they couldn't answer? What if there was no one left to answer?

"Hello?" He coughed to clear the hoarse strain from his voice. "Is anyone here?"

One step forward at a time. He angled his searchlight back and forth, trying to convince himself he wasn't looking for bodies.

Something clattered to his right, and he swung around to find two children, trembling and chalky-skinned beneath a layer of drywall dust as they maneuvered themselves around a chunk of concrete bristling with rebar. They stared at him with eyes too wide and too glassy, but they were alive. Relief kicked Virgil hard in the chest, but the awareness that they were running out of time—" _Three minutes, Virgil_ "—threatened to crush him, and he struggled to maintain a calm expression. If the kids thought there was the slightest chance they were going to die, they would panic.

They didn't have time for panic.

So he held out his hand and said, "Hey, it's going to be okay now."

The pair took a step forward, and their bravery set off a chain reaction as more children emerged from beneath desks and tables. They scrambled toward him, some sobbing, some stoic, but all painfully young. One boy was cradling his arm, and they all showed the early signs of sporadic bruising, but his well-trained eye informed him there were no drastic injuries to deal with.

He smiled and brushed his fingers over the tops of their heads as they clung to his suit. "Time to get out of here," he said, gently pushing them toward the door, trying not to rush them but hyper aware of the invisible but very real clock ticking away seconds they didn't have.

Wait.

He twisted around to count three, four, five children— _five_ children? John said there were six.

One second stretched into an eon as he stared headfirst into the hellish choice no rescue worker ever wanted to confront: save the majority and leave the one, or risk the majority to go after the one?

Today, Virgil had to make the choice that fueled his nightmares.

The whimper was so soft he thought he imagined it. He almost kept walking, almost ignored it. But he trusted his instincts, and his instincts led him toward a collapsed table. Beneath it knelt a girl with dusty black pigtails, clutching white fingers around the steel legs tented over her body—the only reason she wasn't crushed to death.

Virgil crouched and almost overbalanced as the weight of six children's lives slammed into his shoulders. _They weren_ _'t going to make it_. "Hi there. Ready to leave?"

Her lips parted like she was trying to form words but couldn't. Blood leaked from a scratch along her temple, dribbling down pale flesh. Red against white—the contrast was violent on one so young, and although Virgil had seen it before, it always made his heart lurch. Innocent victims of nature's overwhelming might.

"This is an art classroom, isn't it? You know, I'm an artist as well—been drawing since I was about your age and never gave it up." As he talked, he coaxed her fingers to give up their death grip on the metal and helped her upright. She toppled against him, and he hoisted her into his arms.

"John, I've got the kids," he said into the mike wired through his uniform's collar. "Commencing evacuation."

" _Virgil, you need to move—it_ _'s going to hit in less than a minute_."

The other children looked up at him with eyes beginning to shine with relief instead of terror. _International Rescue is here_. _We_ _'re saved_. How he wished he could share their confidence that he would be able to get them out alive, but John and his facts didn't lie. There wasn't enough time.

There was never enough time.

"Head for the door," he ordered, but none of them moved until he did. Urgency hastened his pace, and he pressed the girl's head into his shoulder as a low grumbling made the air tremble. The little band of survivors darted toward the doorway and the marginally safer hallway beyond.

Glinting color caught his eye, pleasant and sharply out of place as it bathed the wreckage in glowing scarlets and golds and royal blues. His steps faltered as his attention wavered, captured by a framed mosaic of stained glass mounted in the corner window—a work of simple beauty with origins in sand and ash.

Hope flickered inside him. Even in the darkest moments, there was always a ray of light. It was his job to act as a mirror to reflect that light.

The rumbling ceased, and the children let out a collective breath. "We're safe," one of the boys said, teeth white against his dirty skin as he smiled.

Virgil's skin prickled as senses honed by too many life-or-death situations came to full attention. "I don't think—"

" _Get out, Virgil_! _It_ _'s localized directly beneath your posi—_ "

An almighty crack ripped the air apart. The children's screams, the way they threw themselves at him, the fact the ground was _ripping itself apart_ not a dozen feet from where he stood ignited a gut-wrenching terror inside him. Control was something Virgil needed, something he'd maintained with an ease that surprised himself, but he had no control now. Not when there were children involved, and not when the ground beneath his feet bucked and heaved like a ravenous monster trying to devour them alive.

* * *

Virgil remembers the city of Kingston.

Last time he was here, the landscape was twisted, fractured. An earthquake opened up its skull and exposed bare bones, splinters of broken buildings stabbing upward from the horizon. It took time to fix, and signs of damage continue to linger, but they are getting there, people are moving on. _He_ is moving on.

Now he's back—not by choice—and unwanted memories bubble to the surface as if it were only yesterday instead of a whole lifetime ago. A year might not be a lifetime, but it sure as hell feels like it. The city is no longer broken, but it is in danger, painted in violent reds and oranges.

Now Kingston is aflame.

"Gordon, move to the right—we need to stop the fire from getting anywhere near that wall." Virgil's voice is muffled by his helmet but even more muffled by the wall of smoke that's beginning to separate him from his brothers.

"Roger that." Gordon salutes him, somewhat mockingly, through the haze. The red _Fire Tender_ in his hands leaps into action. Scott and John have the _Firefly_ down below as they tackle the fire next door, which leaves the other three to fight this blaze by hand. A combination of hyper-compressed water and foam packed into each _Fire Tender_ 's lightweight frame does its job to keep the flames at bay.

For the moment, at least. This fire is fighting back, licking at the roof of the office building with a relentless ferocity. Behind the reflections flickering off Gordon's helmet, Virgil can see the slick of sweat on his brother's face, the way tight lines gouge around his eyes as the heat becomes a little too much. Gordon doesn't say anything, because he never complains on the job, but the lack of fluidity in his movements paints a picture of exhaustion, overexposure to extreme temperatures, and a frantic concern Virgil recognizes because it's the same frantic concern that's currently eating a hole through his heart.

Alan, sensitive kid that he is, notices and without a word slips to Gordon's side and follows his lead. Under their combined assault, the flames begin to recede. "You look like you're drying out a bit," Alan says, voice surprisingly light, if a little breathless.

"He's a fish out of water, Al, what did you expect?" Virgil asks, dousing the crescent receptionist's desk to discourage the flames licking at its polished sides.

Alan flashes him a grin, always pleased to have backup when teasing a brother.

"Thought I'd try something different," Gordon replies casually, but his grunts of effort are unmistakable.

The heat threatens to melt the smile off Virgil's face. Even his fire-resistant suit is straining to hold up against the conflagration; waves of heat pound against his body with physical force, an untamable beast fighting with all its strength to escape their control. He leaps forward to stop flames that are trying to circle back on his brothers, spraying foam as he goes. Control, they need to regain control. It always comes back to control.

Virgil can't shake the thought that if they lose control this time, history will repeat itself.

They already took care of evacuating the building; the police are handling evacuations of this entire city block. If it were just this building they were fighting for, Virgil wouldn't care so much—it's trying too hard to look professional, all panoramic windows, gray walls, barely tall enough to make it stick out from its neighbors. But that's not what's setting Virgil's teeth on edge. Here, the problem isn't the fire—it's the way the fire's _spreading_.

"Is it getting hot in here or is it just me?" Gordon jokes as he fights away flames that are attempting to catch onto the carpet.

"It certainly isn't you," Alan retorts.

For a heart-lurching moment, Virgil loses sight of them as smoke propelled by a new blaze billows over them. He bites out a curse and steps forward to battle this new threat. When he gets an opportunity to remove his attention from the fire, it's to find Gordon and Alan have reappeared, faces illuminated in an intense orange glow that reminds Virgil of fiery sunsets.

He exhales, looks down at his hands. Heavy gloves catch the flying ash, turning blue to black. Hands that were shaking a year ago are shaking now, because he can't escape the feeling that what happened a year ago will happen again.

 _No_. He can't afford to think like that. It might be the same place, the same time, but today will not end the same way.

There's a crackle in his ear, louder than the hiss and pop of the fire, and he flinches. " _Virgil Tracy_." It's EOS. Her strange, childlike voice does nothing to mollify his apprehension; it's only a reminder of her youth. " _Please be advised that the fire crew is attempting to get numbers to your location_."

"That's what you said ten _minutes_ ago, EOS!" he barks. Alan's head snaps toward him, brows drawing together at his tone. A small city like this doesn't have the resources or equipment to be spread so thin, not when evacuations are still taking place. But neither does International Rescue. Virgil's tuned instincts resonate with the certainty that they need more support on the inside.

EOS ignores him, in the way she so often does. " _Backup is unavailable at this time_. _Please be advised that the_ —"

"All right, _thanks_." Virgil finds it hard to talk and focus on his job, and right now he needs to devote every bit of attention to stopping the spread of this fire.

"Hey, uh, Virgil?" Alan says. Virgil grunts and continues to spray flames. "Once we're home, I think my comm needs some adjustment. The volume level keeps fluctuating—"

"Not now, Al—"

A note, middle C, chimes in his ears—EOS's courtesy warning that she's patching Scott through. "Virg, John and I have wrapped up the fire in our sector of this building."

Virgil wants to be relieved, but the strained undercurrent in his eldest brother's voice is a clear indicator of how things are going.

"Unfortunately, it's sparked up on another level; whatever ignited this explosion must have been internal. We've got two firemen with us and that's all. I need some good news, so please tell me you've got your building under control."

"We're working on it," Virgil says, "but we have no crew up here, Scott, and this thing is relentless."

There's an odd crackle across the comm as Scott swears, and he falls silent when the muffled shouting in the background intensifies. "Okay," Scott says, a distracted edge to his voice that means his attention is split in too many directions, "well, just keep it away from that hospital, all right? We can't take any chanc—"

"FAB." Virgil flicks the comm off, frustrated despite himself. He of all people knows they can't take chances, because when he looks out the window of this replaceable office he sees something irreplaceable: a red cross and white walls that are far too close for his peace of mind. Round windows with butterfly stickers and giraffe hangings glare back at him. Fire spreads and fire catches—that's what's setting his nerves alight. A hospital in a fire's proximity is bad enough, but he's staring at a _children_ _'s ward_. If he doesn't contain this fire right here right now, this will be the same place, the same time, the same damn story.

There's a triumphant cry from Alan. Virgil turns back to watch his brother continue to shape the fire. Alan's unfettered optimism reminds Virgil how young his baby brother is. "I put the wires out, that's what's been sparking onto the ground. We can push it back now, I'm sure of it."

Gordon, with that invincible grin, gives Alan a slap on the shoulder and rocks back on his heels—a moment of respite he rarely allows himself in the danger zone.

An understanding that their job isn't finished continues to warble through Virgil's mind, but it's muffled by the fact he can see Alan is right. The burned and frazzled ends of wires poking from the wall have been extinguished. Virgil nods, muscling past the desire to double-check Alan did the job properly through sheer force of will. "Good job, Al—"

The floor rumbles and judders, tossing ash and soot in the air, and for a horrible moment, Virgil is back at that school, trapped between concrete walls with nowhere to go as the ground beneath his boots cracked like an eggshell. Children's screams reverberate through his skull, a score composed of pure terror he can't dislodge from its haunting loop.

Gordon's head snaps toward the bank of windows. "What the hell was that?"

"Was that _here_?" Alan's voice jumps an octave.

Virgil motions them back. "Focus on the fire," he orders, and takes it upon himself to approach the heat-warped glass. Beyond, another plume of smoke spirals into the air from what looks like the fourth floor of a building one street over.

Virgil's heart drops through the bottom of his stomach. _How did this happen_? The sight of flames crawling out of a broken window makes him want to throw up. It's _hard_ to swallow the urge down and report that, "There's been a... another one across the street..." He rubs at the coiling tension in his neck and mutters, "Oh _hell_."

He doesn't want to turn and face his brothers. Partly because he'll have to see the expressions on their faces, but mainly he doesn't want them to see _his_.

"How?" Gordon voices what they're all thinking. "What is this?"

But Virgil doesn't care about the _how_ at the moment; he wants to know what he should do. "EOS, please update me on the situation," he says, voice eerily calm to his own ears. "There's been a second explosion in a building about a block down from us, and I need..." Virgil tilts his head. All he hears is empty space. A crackle. A fizz. The dull roar of the fire in the background. "EOS? Do you read me? Come in, _Thunderbird Five_."

White noise hums back at him.

Virgil has to turn around now. Gordon's jaw is set tight, but he's not saying anything as he focuses on doing his job. Alan's biting his lip, eyes wide, _Fire Tender_ clutched too tight against his body. Virgil tries a different tactic and switches channels. "Scott, do you read me?"

His chest tightens when his eldest brother doesn't answer. _No_ , _don_ _'t leave me alone now_ , _not like this_. But Virgil would know if something happened to Scott, he just _would_. "Scott, John, is anyone receiving me?" There's a flutter and a flicker, the sounds of indistinguishable voices trying to break through.

Then EOS's voice cuts through the noise. " _I am unable to receive contact from the Fire Chief or Scott and John_. _I am reading their vitals and they are normal_. _Currently working to re-establish communication_."

Virgil expels a breath and watches Alan's shoulders relax. "Was it the explosion?" the youngest asks. "Did it cause comms to fault?"

" _Undetermined_ ," comes the reply. If Virgil didn't know any better, he would say even she sounds a little worried. It's unheard of for EOS not to know information that comes in cold, hard facts.

"Well, what's going on over there?" Virgil's urgency wipes any trace of a smile from his brother's face. "Do they need help? That building was evacuated, right?"

" _Undetermined_. _The building was scheduled for evacuation_ , _but I cannot make contact with hhhtzz_ —" Then EOS is gone again, her voice twisted into nothing. Virgil swears and tries to get her back, but only a few shattered syllables make it through.

"The explosion must have disturbed comms," Alan repeats, because he's the sort of person that needs an explanation.

Gordon waves a hand. "Don't worry, she'll be back soon. Something's just blocking her."

But Virgil's heart is crammed into his throat. He's not used to leading and he's certainly not used to doing it alone. But there's no time to wait—he's learned the value of a second. Somebody has to make decisions, and fast. Right now, there's a fire in a building that _might_ be evacuated—but maybe not. He's in a building with a fire that's _probably_ under control—but perhaps not. His two older brothers _could_ be dealing with the situation—but might not.

That's far too many variants for Virgil's liking. So he looks at the fire they're supposed to be containing, and he looks at the brothers he's supposed to be protecting. He can't abandon the fire, not when it's still threatening something so precious. Alan's not going anywhere by himself, not when comms are down. So it has to be Gordon. It's a decision made with the utmost rationality, but every instinct he possesses screams _no_. Virgil lies to himself that it's better this way.

"Gordon, I need you to go and rendezvous with the Fire Chief." His voice is controlled again. It has to be, because he can't control anything else. "If EOS can't get a hold of him, then we'll have to get to him personally. I think that building was evacuated, but we can't be sure. If it's not, they'll need all the help they can get."

Gordon's gaze bounces between the fire and Virgil, amber eyes glowing in the light of his enemy. "But you need me here—"

"It's fine, we have this." It's not fine and they certainly don't have this, but Gordon has to go. Two explosions in one day is not something to take lightly; they need information. "When you've reached him, _call me_. Hopefully comms will be up and running again by then."

Gordon's expression pinches, but he nods, nudging Alan affectionately in passing as he steps away. Virgil can tell he's relieved to escape the heat by the way he rolls his shoulders, but the glance he throws toward them proves he's less eager to leave his brothers behind. "All right, then, I'll be quick. If I see Scott and John on the way, I'll tell them what happened." He twitches a thumb at the fire. "You two have fun now—and no slacking off while I'm gone."

Alan snorts. "We'll try."

"Yeah, well." Gordon pauses and looks at Virgil. "Just keep those kids safe."

Then he's off.

Virgil's throat goes dry. Did he mean those kids across the road, lying injured, sick, or dying with the threat of fire looming ever closer? Or _those kids_? Those kids from a lifetime ago.

Something niggles at the back of Virgil's mind. He takes a step back, watching Gordon leave out of the corner of his eye. This isn't right; he's sending him away with only a "hopefully" as reassurance.

Would Scott have done the same thing? Gordon's words capture a new meaning. _Keep those kids safe_.

Whether it's the heat and smoke that makes him feel sick or the scorch of bile against the roof of his mouth, Virgil can't tell.

* * *

Alan's more than a little jealous as he watches Gordon vanish around the corner. Not only does his brother get to leave this exhausting heat, but Virgil trusts him enough to go on his own. Alan wants to protest, wants to complain, but he bites his tongue. Virgil's got enough on his mind—he doesn't need to know about Alan's hurt pride. Not yet. For now, Alan focuses his energy on the fire they are finally starting to master.

But even the savage flames are not enough of a distraction from the concern seeping into his chest cavity.

They had been called here to handle a fire that was the result of an explosion—a suspected gas leak, the authorities said, but EOS wasn't as sure. As they flew over this quadrant several hours ago, they watched the flames crawl up floors and reach for nearby buildings. Local fire crews were unable to halt its progress, and it swallowed several buildings before they arrived. This office building is the only defense between the original source of the fire and the hospital that's in the final stages of evacuation.

Now there's another explosion, another fire. Alan doesn't know what to think. Because yes, he believes in coincidences, but these two explosions weren't even close. "Virgil, you... do you think this is arson?"

Virgil's staring at the swirling flames with accusation darkening the gold flecks in his eyes into something terrible. He gives himself a visible shake and then circles the reception desk again to combat the fire on the other side. "I don't know what it is, Al. Maybe there are faulty gas mains across these buildings."

Alan swallows air tasting of dry ash and mimics his brother's movements. "You don't think... it could still be damage from that earthquake? Causing this?"

"I don't know!" Virgil's voice is too sharp in Alan's ear and makes him flinch, even though he understands why. "But it would _really_ help if comms came back online."

Alan doesn't like this. He doesn't like that there have been two explosions and three fires in the space of three hours. He doesn't like that, somehow, these explosions have interfered with their comms. Mostly he doesn't like that they are _here_. Even though he never saw Kingston for himself, it still managed to haunt his dreams. Now he has seen it, but the image has changed, burned away by a fire that writhes out of all attempts to corral it.

He desperately wants to tell Virgil that something doesn't feel right, that perhaps they shouldn't have sent Gordon off alone. But he knows if it's painful to remember what happened, it's far harder for the rest of his brothers, for Virgil. So he doesn't bring it up, lets coincidences be coincidences.

The flames continue to die under the force of their assault and the heat becomes more bearable. The fire is still putting up a good fight, eating at the wall and reaching for the ceiling. But they have a better handle on it now.

Something small ruptures where the flames are most concentrated, discharging heat and light and sound like it's a mini supernova, and Alan twists away as reflexes take over. His movement is arrested by the sight of an approaching person, just a silhouette as he exits the stairwell.

A weight that's been dragging on Alan's heart lifts. Gordon must have sent somebody up to help them. "Hey, Virg—"

He stops, and the man stops too.

 _What_?

He isn't a fireman, nor is he wearing any sort of uniform. He looks like a civilian, clad in a dark top and jeans; a short, well-kept beard frames his otherwise-unremarkable face. Alan's certain he wouldn't have noticed his presence if it weren't for the way the man is staring at him, frozen to the spot, eyes wide, one hand rising to rub at his throat.

Alan can't help but stare back. How did he get in the building? What is he doing?

Before Alan has a chance to decide what to do, the man turns on his heel and leaves the way he came. Alan knows he should go back to the fire—the real issue here—but he's consumed by the expression in the man's eyes. Shock like that doesn't come out of nowhere.

A shake of his head and Alan returns to battling the fire's progress. "Ah... Virg? Did you see that man?"

"What man, Alan?" Virgil snaps, words clipped unnervingly short.

Alan cringes. Virgil's _stressed_ —forehead glistening, brows drawn together, every movement jerky from strung-tight nerves. This is getting to him, and no wonder. So Alan tamps down his unease and refuses to heap another worry upon a worried brother's shoulders. Especially when it's _nothing_. "Never mind."

The stranger just looked like a dazed office worker. Or maybe he was in shock, maybe he ran away from the authorities. Maybe he should go after didn't seem scared of the fire, though, unless...

The fire. The _fire_. Of course it was the fire—any person in their right mind would be shocked at coming face-to-face with a fire this destructive. Of course.

Because for a moment, Alan thought the man was looking at _him._ It felt like he was looking at him. But he wasn't, it was the fire. They don't have the time or resources to split up again anyway, nor for Alan's attention to be elsewhere. Especially when it's _nothing_.

All thoughts of the man are pushed aside when a familiar voice chirps in Alan's ears. " _Virgil and Alan Tracy_ , _I have ma—ftzz_..." EOS's voice crackles, and Alan's relief is put on hold. "... _but still_... _to make contact with_... _authorities_."

Virgil's first port of call is the same as Alan's. "That's all right, we're just glad to hear you. What about Gordon? Can you reach him?"

" _Gordon Tracy is online_ , _as are Scott Tracy and John_."

Virgil appears to sag under the news that he's done something right, and his gusty exhale releases a tight knot in the center of Alan's chest. "Okay, good, then we have a direct link of communications. Patch me through to the others and fill us in on this newest explosion. We need to know everything."

Alan listens to the update and fights back flames alongside his re-energized brother. It isn't hard to force the memory of the man back into the shadows until it's like he never existed at all.

* * *

Sometimes Virgil's bones strain under the weight of the lives he might not save. They strained a year ago under a tension that proved unbearable. Now they are straining again, but the tension is slowly easing. It's the same place, but Virgil will not let that haunt him. Not this time.

The fire is dying. It will not get any closer to those children or that hospital—not if they maintain this pace. Virgil and Alan make a good team. They don't get to work together that often, but when they do, they are aware of one another's movements. It's fluid, efficient, and right now, he's more than grateful for the company.

With comms back up and running, a measure of control has been restored. Scott and John are fine, if not making as much progress on the original fire as they'd like. Gordon's fine too, although already he's being pulled in different directions.

The second explosion loiters at the back of his mind like a thundercloud. It took place in a building already evacuated—thank goodness—but five firemen are all that's left to deal with that blaze. Virgil originally planned to reconvene with his older brothers once this fire is out, but now he's not so sure.

A sigh thick with ash escapes his lips as he sprays an escaped spark. Everything is smoldering; gray smoke hangs heavy in the air, as still and thick as swamp fog. The wall of the office is blackened and contorted, and the nauseating stench of burned metal creeps past his helmet's filters. Parts of the windows have melted away. Virgil doesn't want to look out them, doesn't want to lay eyes on the city that's once again in the hands of disaster. In fact, he doesn't want to go anywhere near them, not with the glass as weak as it is. One wrong step and it won't be fire he has to worry about. So Virgil steps backward—just in case.

There's a sharp crack beneath his boot, and he lifts his foot to find a string of glass beads. Some are crushed now, the weight of his body smashing them to sandy grains. But the colors remain, swirls of emerald and azure and magenta and copper. Virgil wonders why they didn't melt. To survive the fire and then be crushed seems a poor fate.

It looks like a child's necklace.

Something electric jolts through Virgil and he is _struck_ , staring at the remnants of what was once beautiful and probably loved. All the heat of the room is sucked away, replaced by a bone-numbing cold.

 _Will this never leave him_? Is that why he's here, to be haunted by memories, by ghosts he's tried so hard to rid himself of? Physically, he's fighting fire, but in his soul, it's so much more than that. He's fighting the past. But this worry that history is repeating itself, it's not going away. The notion that past will become present pumps dread through him with every agonizing beat of his heart.

But he can't focus on that—not now. He has to push it back, has to stay centered in the present.

"Virg?"

At Alan's small voice, he tears his gaze away from the beads and turns around. But Alan's not worried about him; he's pointing to a trail of fire that's starting up again, already preoccupied with rogue flames trying to escape via the roof.

Virgil growls and pounces. He knows the value of a second, and yet he continues to take them, wasting them on himself. "Shit, sorry, Al—"

Alan's smile says everything is chill. They've got this under control. A light fondness glimmers in those blue eyes, one that says _you worry too much_. Virgil nods his understanding. He does worry, but Alan can't comprehend the full extent of why. Not when he wasn't here last time.

A D minor chord chimes.

" _Virgil_." John's voice is like a cooling salve over his burned-away nerves. It feels right to have the calm, dulcet tones of their usual space monitor return to their rightful place in his ears. It does _not_ feel right to have them coming from the ground. This was both the worst and the best time to give EOS a trial at managing communications by herself. It was certainly the worst time for John to take one of his mandatory breaks. " _We_ _'ve still got around thirty minutes on this one_ , _it_ _'s really not getting any smaller_. _We could use your support if you_ _'re almost done_."

Virgil glances at the blackened mess, the way spouts of flames dart up in an erratic non-pattern. Every time one leaps forward, Alan is quick to douse it. But Virgil won't risk leaving it, not yet, not when there's so much at stake. "Sorry, John, we're still wrapping this one up. We'll get there as... ah... soon as we can."

There's a pause on the other end. Virgil can hear Scott in the background, barking orders at some unsuspecting fireman. He almost smiles. Then John's back, concern etched in his tone. " _Are you okay_?"

Virgil's frown deepens. _He_ _'s_ supposed to be the one that asks that, not the other way around. Alan hears the question but pretends not to be listening. Perhaps he's wanted to ask it all along. A simple _no_ hangs on Virgil's tongue— _no_ , he's not okay; _no_ , he feels like he's living his worst nightmare; _no_ , this is all too familiar.

But they have got a job to finish. "Of course. I'll call when we're heading down. Keep me updated."

John isn't convinced, he never is, but he doesn't push it. " _Sure_. _Tell Alan that_ —"

His voice vanishes with a stomach-lurching dip that stops both Virgil and Alan in their tracks. Alan looks up, cheeks paling beneath his freckles. "Again? EOS, you there?" When there's no answer, he spins on his heel. "But, Virg, I thought it was the explosions that caused the interference—"

There's a distant boom. This time, the floor doesn't shake, but he can sense the vibrations in the air, the way they crawl inside his body and rattle the very core of him.

It's happened again.

The explosions are so reminiscent of the earthquake that he almost drops to his knees. They feel weak, exhausted. This can't be happening. Now the question isn't _how_ or _what to do_ , it's _why_? Why is this happening? To a city that's been through enough, to a people that have fought to rebuild.

To International Rescue, who buried everything they wanted to forget with the rubble.

Buried everything with the bodies.

Virgil closes his eyes and tries to calm his racing heart, to catch his breath, to regain control _._ A year ago, those children looked at him and saw their savior—now, Alan's looking at him and waiting for answers.

It's not Alan that snaps Virgil back to the present, it's EOS. Her voice is crackly and tight, as though it's physically hard for her to push through the block. " _Virgil Tracy_. _An explosion has taken place outside the evacuation perimeter. I_... _all_... _serv_... _can_ _'t_..." She dissolves into static, and then reappears. " _The building has not been evacuated_ , _and there are at least twenty-five people inside_... _Scott and John have_..."

"Scott and John have what? Have _what_?" Virgil yells at nothing, because she's gone again, gone with this new explosion. Virgil needs Scott more than anyone right now, but all he has is Alan, staring at him with those too young eyes. "What the hell are we supposed to _do_? We can't leave this building—if we do, the fire'll start up again, I just know it."

"Yeah, it will—"

"John said he and Scott were still busy, so I doubt they can go over to it."

"No, but—"

"We can't get in touch with Gordon or the fire crew." Virgil's mind trips over itself and he can't _think_.This rescue has been a mess from the start."But there are people in that building, Alan! _People_. I can't have a repeat of last year, I _can_ _'t_ —"

"I know, Virg." Alan's by his side, one eye on him, one on the fire. He sticks his chin in the air, something he does when he wants to be scared but can't let himself. "I'll go."

Virgil blinks.

As he examines his little brother, all soot-blackened uniform and shoulders squared by a fragile veneer of confidence, Virgil's jaw hardens. "No way, I'm not sending you there on your own—"

"What other choice do we have?" Alan's voice rises. "You take care of this fire, I'll see who I can find, and then we'll start evacuating."

"No. No way, that's not even an option here, Alan—"

"It's the _only_ option." The way Alan's voice switches from pleading to commanding screams _Scott_. He's looking back at the fire, which is smoldering, regaining its strength as they talk circles around it. "We don't have time for this. Just let me go." Blue eyes hard, the youth Virgil saw before only displays itself in glimpses. "I can do this. Let me do it."

Virgil stares at his brother. All he wants is time to think this through, because he's a thinker, a thorough planner; he takes his time, just like his 'bird. But now he knows the value of a second. He knows the value of time and how to use it, and he knows he can't let his worry get in the way of saving lives. So as hard as this is, sending his baby brother into the unknown is something he has to do. "Fine, if you can get to Gordon and the Fire Chief. If comms come back on, talk to me immediately. Understand?"

Alan's shoulders drop a bit, but now he's confident for real. "Understood."

For the second time today, Virgil watches a brother walk out the door. Now he knows it's the worry that makes him sick, not the smoke or the heat. Or perhaps it's the memories of what they lost and how he's desperate not to lose it again.


	2. Fear Behind Frosted Cages

" _Less than four minutes_ , _Virgil_."

Alan stood in the villa's lounge, arms crossed tight over his chest, trying to hold himself together as he listened to John's voice, his soft yet urgent tone.

It was hard watching holograms spring back and forth when he was here and they were there. _Here_ and _there_ had become two separate worlds. Alan was safe, his brothers were not—that was the difference. He would much rather be at risk than stuck at home watching with no way to help.

He couldn't even really see anything. He'd tried to build an image of the destroyed school in his mind, tried to picture what caused the reactions on their faces. The problem was, he could only build on what they told him, and they didn't like telling him all that much.

"John? Will he get out in time?" Alan's fingernails dug into his palms as he tried to keep his words even, mature, but the childish shake was beyond his control. "What's going on with the others?"

"Not now, Alan." John's words were sharp and focused. Whether that was to keep him from worrying or from a true lack of time, Alan wasn't sure. If only they understood that the unknown scared him the most. He felt like he was encased in darkness, blind even to the sunbeams drenching the lounge. There was a frustrating and terror-filled hole in his vision, occupied only by blue holograms that weren't bright enough, weren't _real_ enough.

Gordon's hologram leaped into existence from thin air, a frown creasing his face as he panted. "I can't... get around this... damn _wall_ , John! I thought you... said there was clear access?"

"Have you tried taking a deep breath?" John's reply was infested with irritation, directed less at Gordon, Alan was certain, and more toward the situation. John's hands waved around him, fingers curling and flexing as they manipulated holograms up in _Five_ 's commsphere. "I'll give you a new route down the corridor, stand by."

Gordon grunted but did as he was told. The hologram faded out, only to be replaced by another. Scott, with his dirt-streaked face and ripped uniform, wiped a hand across his forehead. "There are still kids in building C, John. I'm going to head there next—"

"No, Scott, just wait," John replied, terse. "We've got about four minutes before the next—"

"John, there's blockage down this corridor too," Gordon interrupted, figure springing back to life.

"Then do something about it," John snapped.

Alan winced. His fingers tangled in the material of his sleeves, but it still hurt when he squeezed them into fists. John was being pulled in too many directions.

"What do you mean _do something_ about it?"

"Gordon. Just _stop_. Stay put for a moment, then I'll give you a new route. Three minutes, Virgil."

"We don't have a moment," Gordon retorted, molding to John's mood. "You've been harping on about that for the past half hour—"

"Gordon, hold off," Scot said, voice filled with a note of authority Alan both dreaded and revered. "How's Virg on time?"

John didn't get a chance to answer. "John, I've got the kids," Virgil said quietly as his hologram inflated to fill the final dark spot in Alan's vision. It was strange how they all turned slightly, as though Virgil was really there with them. Even Alan turned to look at his brother, hands uncurling to release his sleeves. The kids were _alive_. "Commencing evacuation."

John's hologram softened around the edges. "Virgil, you need to move—it's going to hit in less than a minute." The way his eyes lingered on each brother resonated with Alan. It struck him that, technically, he and John were in similar positions of tangible helplessness. "Scott and Gordon, you know what to do. Get somewhere stable. After it strikes, I need Gordon to go help Virgil finish off building F."

"Well, I was _trying_ to get there..." Gordon muttered, but he was drowned out by Scott's, "FAB."

Alan wasn't quite sure what happened next. He turned around, ready to flop onto the sofa with the assurance that everything would be fine. Virgil had the kids, he was evacuating. But turning his back was a bad idea—without the holograms to push back the darkness, all he was aware of was a sharp cry from John.

"Get out, Virgil! It's localized directly beneath your posi—"

Something began to happen. It was only _something_ to Alan, because when he spun around, all he could see were his brothers' forms, suddenly alert and far too silent. Then he heard the noise—a distant rumble, a crack that made his teeth ache, screams. The fear he'd been trying so hard to keep at bay sank its blood-chilling talons into his spine, locking his muscles into place.

Between one second and the next, everything fell apart.

John's hands flew into action. Scott yelled and his arms flailed. Gordon's hologram flickered as he was thrown forward to sprawl on the ground. Virgil whirled around and ducked, arms outstretched, his body covering something—or some _one_.

Alan lurched forward a step, driven by the need to help.

What sounded like an explosion ripped through the lounge speakers, filling them with static and sending quivers through Alan's entire body.

Then Virgil the human shield was _gone_. His hologram evaporated. Blinked out of existence.

Alan choked back a cry. Scott was braced against a wall, Gordon on his stomach with his hands protecting his head, and Virgil was _gone_.

Alan swallowed against his sandpaper throat.

The other two holograms shimmered and threatened to disappear, but then Scott's found steady ground. "That was a strong one. Is everyone all okay?"

Gordon coughed and slowly pushed himself to his knees. Alan's hands trembled inside their sleeves once more. "A little shaken..." Gordon winced and arched his back into a cautious curve. "But FAB."

"Good—"

" _Virgil_? Do you read me?" John's voice sliced like chilled steel through Scott's relieved voice. "Scott, I've lost him. His signal is down."

The dismay on his brothers' faces made Alan whimper.

Scott's hand strayed to his comm. "Virgil? _Virg_?" He turned so his face was in profile. "Come _on_ , Virgil!"

There was no answer, and Alan wasn't sure whether the shroud that draped over Scott's features was a sign of anger or caused by the spreading hole, like a jagged wound, in Alan's vision.

"What happened?" Scott barked, a militaristic cadence to his words that always made Alan's shoulders stiffen. "Did you see anything, John?"

Sharp movement grabbed the edge of Alan's awareness and spun him to face John, whose hands were chopping through invisible data. "I wasn't watching him," he admitted in a low, fractured voice that left Alan feeling like he'd been punched in the chest. He was the only one who'd trained with John in the commsphere, and he recognized the signs of a data overload, the ragged edge of realization that brothers had been abandoned—accidental but no less crushing. "Just... give me a moment... I'm trying to... draw statistics."

Alan couldn't breathe. All he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and wait for his brothers to come home, all of them, tired but _alive_ , because that's what always happened. Instead, he made himself take increasingly deep breaths until he could see the other holograms again, before addressing the only brother he felt he could in this situation. "Gordon? Gords? You have to go find him. You're the closest... he was right there and then he was just _gone_ and I—"

All three holograms flinched, as though they'd forgotten he was listening in. They probably had. Again.

"Alan..." Scott's shoulders dropped as he exhaled. "Don't worry, this isn't—"

"No, but... but he's got those _kids_." Alan voice was trembling again. "I saw him duck. Something must've been falling on him."

"Maybe," John agreed. One hand abandoned its violent gesticulations to dig into his eye socket. "Or it could be a comm glitch. Just let me—let me figure out what's going on."

"We haven't got time," Alan whispered as nauseating certainty rolled over him.

"I'm doing everything I possibly—"

"He's right, John," Gordon interrupted. He brushed himself down and gave an unconvincing half-smile. "Okay, Al, it's fine. I'll go get him, it will just be disturbance with the comms. Don't worry—he and the kids will be safe."

But Alan didn't miss the look that crossed Scott's face, the raw _uncertainty_. Alan's legs wobbled and he dropped onto the couch. There was nothing he could do, that was the worst part. He'd watched a brother disappear from the safety of their living room. None of them were safe—none except Alan, because he was _here_ and they were _there_.

But Virgil and the kids were _nowhere_ , and that was even more frightening.

* * *

Alan has always compared his brothers to heroes.

Why shouldn't he? Scott's a decorated Air Force pilot, John's a NASA-certified astronaut, Virgil's medical training has enabled him to save hundreds of lives, and Gordon's a gold medal Olympian who gave up a promising athletic career to join WASP because he wanted to protect people.

All four of them are heroes—knights in shining armor, always willing to help anyone in need of rescuing.

Surrounded by unfamiliar walls, looking for people who might not exist, Alan wonders if he could be any further from a hero.

He swallows and takes a deep breath. Hands clammy inside their gloves fumble with his searchlight as he flicks it on, illuminating a salmon-carpeted corridor hazed out by a thin layer of smoke. On both sides of him are tall panes of frosted glass he can't quite see through. Each panel creates an office cubicle, separated by wooden doors, only just hidden enough to be private. As he edges his way to the end of the corridor and turns left, he's met with an identical sight.

It's a labyrinth of not quite transparency, and it's _frustrating_. Alan reaches a hand to touch the glass, finds it cold and not-quite-smooth beneath his fingertips. It reminds him of the glass chess set they have at home.

He pulls back and tugs his helmet off, rolling his neck to stretch out the kinks. He knows he should keep wearing it, but it's heavy and cumbersome and he'd rather not.

So he clips it to the back of his belt next to his _Fire Tender_ and carries on. When he shines his searchlight through the glass, he sees shadows that shrink and grow, desks and chairs and bookshelves that turn into morbid creatures of the night. Dark places have always had their way with Alan's imagination.

The silence is chilling. Nothing can be heard apart from the soft pads of his boots against carpet and the faint rumble of distant fire. It makes him feel very alone. He's in the core of this building with no windows to the outside, no power. Relying on searchlight doesn't help his racing heart. Each shadow that leaps from the wall is an enemy—or a _body_. But he has to remind himself that's not true. This fear is an illusion, it's always an illusion. He has to get people out. They're likely far more scared than he is and have every right to be. So he forces himself to concentrate.

The main source of the explosion is eating the front of the building, gorging itself on obnoxiously colored drywall. But in the center of the building it's like nothing's happened—if he ignores the thick warmth and a vaguely astringent smell that hits the back of his throat whenever he inhales.

There's more fire around here somewhere. Alan's just not sure _where_. The unknown is back again, and it's more than terrifying.

"I'm on the floor of the explosion. People are here, aren't they, EOS?" Alan whispers, needing something—even if it's his own voice—to break the silence. He's not sure why he feels the need to whisper. There's something about the dim light and looming walls that demands secrecy.

" _Affir-r-r-rmative_ ," EOS replies. She does not whisper, and the loud noise in his ears makes him flinch. Her replies are laced with static, and every time she talks, it's one step away from giving him a migraine.

About ten minutes after the explosion, comms had rebooted. It didn't slip Alan's notice that this followed the pattern set by the last explosion. This time, however, comms hadn't come back at full strength. Virgil's line crackles and is barely audible, Scott and John can hardly string two words together, and Gordon's non-existent. Alan's not sure how much they can hear from their ends, but he has to assume the worst.

They're losing contact with one another. He knew that when he volunteered for this, but the knowledge still sits like a boulder in his gut. Comms are no longer reliable; even EOS is struggling. " _My scans sh-sh-sh-show ten life forms still in the build-d-d-d-ing_. _The fire is contained on the second fl-l-l-l-l_ —"

She dissolves into a wail of feedback that tears its jagged claws into Alan's brain. He cries out, searchlight clattering to the ground as he slams his hands over his ears and curls forward, a futile attempt to escape noise that's embedded directly inside his head.

Before he gets a chance to recover, she reappears. " _F-F-F-Foundations are_... _stable but it will beg-g-g-gin to spread so-o-o-oon_."

Alan straightens and massages his fingers around his ears, trying to reach the ache deep within. He blinks unfocused eyes as he tries to peer through another sheet of opaque glass. "I don't—" He clears his throat. "I don't suppose you've heard from the, ah... the fire crew yet? Or Gords?"

" _Negative_."

He swipes one wrist across his eyes as he retrieves the fallen searchlight. "All right. I'll check in when I find people. They're priority right now, not the fire." Which he can't fight on his own anyway. "Also, if... if you get a clearer line with Virgil or Scott, will you let me know?"

" _Yes_ ," is all she says before she switches off. His throbbing head is relieved, even though he's kind of irritated by her curt reply. He wonders if she understands the motivation behind his question or if she's only aware of the practical zeros and ones. It _is_ easier to complete a mission with communication, after all. Alan just needs to know that they're _there_ , even if they can't be of any help. Their presences are usually in the back of his mind during rescues, like ever-watching holograms—but now they're cut off.

He sighs and checks over his shoulder. _No_. He volunteered for this—there isn't time for uncertainty. So he pushes forward and does his best to ignore the encroaching shadows.

As he walks down the corridor, he trails his hand along the glass, swinging the searchlight from left to right. There's a thin blanket of smoke gathering along the underside of the ceiling, and he quickens his step.

Most of the building's employees evacuated when the explosion took place. Alan had passed frightened people on his way in and as he ascended the stairwell. He did his best to direct them, but their terror fed their desire for explanation, and that was something he couldn't give them. It's always hard to meet eyes that judge his age. When he's with one of his brothers, it's fine—everyone focuses on their authority or at least their mature presence. But when he's on his own, a sense of inadequacy always mingles with his fear, makes it hard to keep pushing forward.

Alan turns down another corridor and pauses.

There's a noise up ahead that catches his attention. A yell fuses with a hoarse whisper, followed by a bone-jolting _thud_. Alan's throat tightens as he approaches one of the offices at the end of the hall. A dull red glow spills through the glass, leaking like blood onto flesh-colored carpet. Smoke crawls beneath the seam under the door.

He curses silently under his breath as he breaks into a run. The light brightens as he nears the source, even though it's being diffused by the frosted glass. When Alan sees something that isn't a shadow, he stumbles backward, only for his shoulders to collide with the opposite cubicle wall. It reverberates with a hollow thump that reminds him of every monster movie he's ever watched. He's just made himself a target for any horrors lurking around.

Wonderful.

All Alan can see are shapes—silhouettes, outlines of ink drawn on fiery paper, held in suspension like puppets abandoned by a puppeteer. They could be holograms for all he knows.

When he tries to peer through the glass, he's pushed back by the heat radiating from within. Maybe they _are_ just shadows...

"This is, ah... International Rescue..." He sounds young and strange to his ringing ears as his voice echoes into the empty hall. Laughable, that's how he feels.

Somebody shrieks, and the puppets unfreeze. In a series of jerky, unnatural movements, they lurch forward, piling on top of each other to fill Alan's vision. The shape of a hand pushes its way through the dark, writhing mass to the forefront, fingers splaying long and grotesque against the glass.

"Get us out of here!" someone screeches. Despite the terror in her voice, Alan finds himself able to breathe once more. They're human, not monster.

The floodgates open: words begin to tumble over one another, as desperate as the people reaching to be pulled from a world of shadows and smoke.

"The door's locked!"

" _I can_ _'t breathe_!"

"Please, we need to get out!"

"All right," Alan says, voice croaky, "just stay calm."

Heavy fists start to bang against the glass, an ominous drumming that pounds through his head, paralleling the uneven thud of his heart. He trips, almost crashes to his knees as he races on unsteady feet to the heavy-looking wooden door, hands shaking as he wrestles with the stuck handle.

"There's no way out!" a woman cries, followed by a dreadful, soul-ripping sob. Alan gulps in breaths that taste charred around the edges and returns to find the shadowy hand is still there, pressed against the glass, waiting with unnatural patience. Every part of him wants to flee and get more help, but that's not possible. He's trained, he knows what to do. Besides, he promised Virgil he could handle this.

But now he isn't sure. He's become the shadow to the people he's supposed to save, trapped on the wrong side of the glass. Don't they realize their yelling isn't helping? Don't they realize their cries are only feeding his own fear?

"E-EOS, I've got survivors—they're trapped. I have to try and get them ou..." His voice wavers into thin air, but it's no use. She's dipped out of range again.

" _Do something_! _Please_!"

Alan shakes himself, trying to snap out of it. Reaching forward, he presses his own hand against the silhouetted hand. He shoves aside a thousand fears, a thousand doubts that he isn't good enough, and focuses on the job. "All right, I'm going to get you out of there, don't worry. The only way is to break the glass, so I'm going to need you to step backward? Can you do that for me?"

There are whimpers that make Alan's chest ache, but the shadows melt away from the glass. The ghostly hand is the last to lift away. When he steps back, it's like no one's behind there at all.

The corridors are barren of anything that could serve as a battering ram, so he unclips the modified extinguisher from its place at his hip. _Fire Tender_ s aren't too heavy, since they're designed to be used efficiently in taxing situations, but it will have to do.

He runs his tongue over dry lips. "Prepare to shield your faces from shattering glass," he calls. Then he settles into a stable stance, takes a deep breath, and lifts backward. Doubts and fears rush forward to knock him off balance, but he forces himself to stand firm as he throws his—and the extinguisher's—weight forward.

There's a crack like he's stepped on ice, but when he examines the glass, the fracture is hairline. Undaunted, he raises the extinguisher and propels himself forward again, braced for the thud that jars through his body. Someone on the inside shouts. Hissing, he tries again, but the _Fire Tender_ is too clunky for him to aim with the finesse he requires.

His shoulders burn as he allows the extinguisher to drop between his feet and replaces it with the searchlight, which trembles in his grip as he lines the butt of it up with the crack. Each pound, pound, _pound_ drives the headache deeper into his aching ear canals, despite the protection of his helmet, but he refuses to give up, refuses to let these people die because of him, refuses, refuses, _refuses_.

Glass splits with a mighty crack, and the entire pane explodes away from him. Alan blinks, dazzled by the way the shards glint orange, a thousand molten knives that rip through the smoke's soft underbelly. Gray plumes surge forward, writhing like wounded beasts to engulf him and smudging his view of the shadows as they escape, spluttering and shaking and then solidifying into flesh and bone. Two men and four women stumble through the gap, twisting to avoid the jagged edges of glass. One lady with a pallid face leans on a tall man; the others cling to one another as they cough and stagger.

Alan can't see any serious injuries, but smoke inhalation is a very real possibility, so he reaches forward to place a hand beneath the elbow of the distressed woman. Bits of glass twinkle in her dark, curly hair and spread across her shoulders like droplets of starlight. He makes a mental note to mention the description to Virgil later.

"All right, you're okay, everything's under control," he says, trying to insert authority into his voice so he can command their attention. "I'm going to get you out of here. Can you all walk?"

"Y-yes..." the lady he's assisting stutters. 'What's going on? W-what happened?"

Another woman whimpers. "I thought we were going to die in there."

"Is everyone else okay?" one of the men asks.

Alan wishes he knew. "So far there haven't been—"

"I heard there are multiple fires. What the hell is going on?"

"Is this _terrorism_?"

"Terrorists?" the first woman asks, shrill. "Are they in the building? Why did they target here?"

Alan's numb to the core. He didn't even _think_ of terrorism. He assumed it was all a freak accident or maybe an arsonist. Now the thought has been planted in his mind, and it's not letting go. Could it be terrorism?

 _What if the people that did this are still inside the building_?

The sweat trickling down the back of his neck isn't caused by his proximity to the fire. "Please, I need you to calm down and follow me right now. I'm on my own here, but I know what I'm doing. There are more people in this building, but I have to get you out first. Do you understand?"

Six pairs of terror-bright eyes stare at him. It's silent for a moment before frantic questions start up again. It's the "Where are the firefighters? Why are _you_ on your own?" that really gets him. He doesn't have the heart to tell them no one else could be spared.

"I need to get you out," he repeats as he begins herding them along. The halls darken as they get farther away from the fire, so he powers up his searchlight. Trying to remember which way he came isn't easy when he's keeping an eye out for any more survivors. This is only six of them, after all. The others have to be somewhere.

As they turn a corner, his searchlight flickers. He glances down to find the protective lens is smashed and the bulb cracked. He squeezes the casing, willing it to stay on—which is the moment it dies and they are plunged into a darkness that swallows his racing thoughts. It winds around his limbs and veils his eyes, a host ready and willing to nurture his fears.

He swears under his breath, aware even now that he has an image to maintain. He lets go of the woman's elbow to hit the searchlight against his hand. She whimpers and smacks his arm a few times before she latches onto his uniform.

Understanding sweeps over him and he pats her hand. "Don't worry, we're almost there. Just stay close together and follow me," he says, but he's starting to doubt himself. Surely it took him less time to get in? If the heat buffeting against them is any indication, a wrong turn now could mean the difference between alive or burned to a crisp.

Alan trails his hand against the wall as he leads everyone forward, trying to remember if he needs to make a left or a right at the junction ahead. The absence of light leaves the door wide open for his other senses. Their urgent footfalls squish into the carpet, and the harsh, rasping breaths of the people he's rescuing hiss against the frosted glass walls. It reminds him of a rattlesnake, coiled in the dark, ready to lash out with fangs bared.

Something crunches up ahead, gunshot-loud. Despite the sweltering temperatures, a cold sweat breaks out across Alan's body, and he can't make himself take another step forward.

One woman screams when a light appears out of nowhere, beaming straight into Alan's blown-wide pupils. He groans, throws his hand up and turns away, but the damage is already done—his headache flares white-hot as it rips down his optic nerves and shoots into the depths of his head.

The ringing in his ears makes his stomach lurch a moment before he loses his sense of balance. His searchlight hits the floor with an unsettlingly elongated _thuuud_ as he braces himself against the wall, taking cautious breaths in an effort to tame the swelling nausea.

He squints with watering eyes at the solitary star. It takes him a few blinks to figure out it's a searchlight held by a man who's in silhouette, and Alan's heart leaps into his mouth. Possibilities race through his mind: _terrorist_ , _arsonist_ , _saboteur_ , _suicide bomber_...

He can't help but think of the man from the stairwell—a spectral figure hovering at the edge of his consciousness, enlarged and darkened by fear that doesn't follow the rules of common sense. Chills skitter across Alan's skin.

"Hey there, folks."

Alan's knees quiver and he lowers his head to suck in a deep breath. It's not a terrorist, not a gunman, not an arsonist—it's Gordon's voice that's floating toward them. His breezy tone seems to appease the rescuees, and they surge his way. Like always, Alan thinks with a tad more bitterness than he means. People always gravitate toward someone older, someone more experienced, someone with easy charm and a comforting smile.

"Look like you could use a little help," Gordon says, clasping the tall man on the shoulder and smiling at the others as he walks among them. "You'll have to forgive my colleague—apparently he's forgotten how to use a searchlight."

"It broke," Alan mutters, glowering as he pushes himself to his full height, but he has to leave his hand on the wall when another wave of lightheadedness tries to shove him sideways.

"Whoa." Gordon darts forward and locks a hand under his elbow in a mirror of what Alan did for the woman with stars in her hair just a few minutes ago. "Al? Bud? C'mon, talk to me—what's wrong?"

His voice reverberates in Alan's head, overlaid by an uncomfortable buzz that distorts each word and makes it hard to focus. He wants to lean into Gordon, wants to let big brother take over and handle everything, just for a little while. But the temperature's climbing into dangerous territory and they have victims who look like they're approaching their limits.

So he meets Gordon's eyes and through his teeth lies, "I'm just tired. We have bigger concerns—I'm pretty sure that fire is spreading."

Gordon gives him A Look—not his "you're weird" look, but it bears resemblance. Alan does his best not to squirm, for the sake of his compromised balance more than maintaining his innocence. _C_ _'mon_ , _Gordy_ , _let it pass_...

And, after what feels like an age, Gordon does. "All right," he says, slow and slower still due to damaged eardrums. There's a furrow dug between his brows that promises this is a temporary reprieve, but he squeezes Alan's arm with genuine concern and affection before swiveling to face the tight knot of victims. "If you'll follow me, folks, there's a medical crew waiting at the bottom of the building. You'll be in good hands. When we know more about the cause of the situation, you'll be informed, but for now, we have to evacuate."

Alan finds himself nodding along with everyone else without thinking and has to immediately stop so he can gulp down swirling nausea. Not a cool moment to puke. By the time everything's returned to roughly an even keel, it's to find he's been left behind. Perhaps he pushes himself a bit much, but it's basically worth it when he falls into step with his brother. It's hard to gauge his own voice, but he does his best to lower it; he wants answers too. "What are you doing here? What's happened?"

Another Look, another _you_ _'re not okay, are you_?, but even whispers carry in glass-enclosed halls. "I'm on messenger duty," Gordon announces, as though International Rescue has a ground runner instead of the world's most advanced comms system. "Apparently I'm a pawn now, because they've had me racing between buildings ever since—well. You know. Anyway, I came to tell you that more firefighters have arrived and are on their way now. Heading to Virg's position first, I'm afraid—the hospital has priority, which means this baby's going to have to burn a little while longer. Scott and John are practically finished." A grin stretches beneath worried eyes. "They _demanded_ I check on you."

"I don't need checking up on," Alan whispers. Or he thinks he does. It's hard to tell. "I was doing... uh, fine." He glances back to scan the half-dozen people quietly trailing them, before he leans closer, resting his hand on Gordon's shoulder—definitely below his own now; _yes_ , Gordon's officially the shortest Tracy—to steady himself. "Listen, the last time I spoke to EOS, she said there were still people up here—"

"We'll come back up and get them after."

"But we could—"

Gordon shakes his head. "Nah, I've had enough of splitting up. Besides, you don't have a searchlight." _Or all your wits about you_ , he doesn't say.

Alan frowns but doesn't argue. "Hey... Gords? Give me your honest opinion. What do you think this is?"

Gordon looks at him, the light of a smile dying in his eyes. Alan has to remind himself that Gordon was here a year ago too. "I really don't know, Al, but I like to think it's all just an accident. Until proven otherwise, in my mind, it will be."

Typical optimistic Gordon. Alan dips his head a fraction but can't stop the chill coil of doubt that slithers through him.

They maneuver their way through the maze of glassed-in office cubicles. Gordon leads them on a different route than Alan took to get in, and even though his sense of direction is a bit skewed, he's pretty sure Gordon's steering them away from the explosion site. It falls silent between them, apart from checking on the evacuees. It's when they're descending the stairwell that Alan hears something flicker in his ear.

Oh no.

His fingers seize around the railing he's been clutching the whole way down as the flicker turns into EOS, framed by a roar of speckled noise and disturbance. Alan catches a glimpse of Gordon's hand jumping to his ear; then he's squeezing his eyes shut and grinding his teeth together as the strength of the signal hammers upon his damaged hearing. " _I have figured_... _is_... _pattern between the_..." A terrible crackling fills the blank spaces between her words. "— _ther one_!" AIs can't gasp for air, but EOS does an admirable imitation. " _There_ _'s going to be_... _anoth_ —"

She doesn't need to finish.

Gordon's thrown into the wall with the force of the detonation. It rocks the entire building—not enough to be in it, but it's got to be right next door. Alan stumbles forward, trips down one stair, only to be yanked back by his iron grip on the railing. His tailbone smacks concrete, and he watches through eyes gone blurry as the people in front of them fall and scream and scramble across one another in an effort to continue down the shuddering staircase.

"No—just wait!" Alan cries. "Slow down—it's not safe, you'll hurt yourselves!"

He pulls himself to his feet so he can race after them, but a hand grabs his arm, steadying him before he can lose his balance again. Gordon's regained his feet and is staring at him with eyes too wide and too dark. "No, Alan, I'll go. You stay here and search for the oth—"

"No!" Alan tangles his fingers in Gordon's singed cuff, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. "What—what happened to not splitting up?"

"Dammit, Al, did you not just hear that?" He breaks Alan's hold with a gentle but firm twist of his forearm. "That's another explosion—who knows how many people are in there? I'll get your guys out, then I'll go deal with that one. This is out of control."

"But... EOS is down again and I... I..." _I_ _'ve damaged my hearing and I don't think I can get anyone else out on my own_.

"Hey." Gordon maneuvers himself onto the stair below him and squeezes both of his shoulders. Alan can't meet his eyes. "You're doing great. I know this is hard on you because... well..." He touches a finger to Alan's earlobe and frowns. "If you think you're up to it, find the last few people and then go get medical attention."

Alan bats him away and draws his shoulders back. "I've got this, Gordon. Go."

"I know you do." He thrusts his searchlight into Alan's hand. "Stay sharp. I'll catch you on the flip side, kid." Then he's gone, bounding down the stairs with his near-endless reserves of energy on display as he chases their wayward rescuees.

Alan doesn't want to think about the new explosion. It makes him feel sick. But he's also dazed to the bone, because a part of him expected this to happen. The idea of coincidence has officially vanished from his mind. But he can't think of that now, not if he wants fear of this place to haunt his reality as well as his dreams.

When he arrives, already winded, at the top of the staircase, he decides to go the opposite direction in search of survivors. Four people. Four people, and then he can get out of here. That's all it will take.

He finds himself wandering for a time, peering through too many windows, struggling to find a route he hasn't taken before. Comms are acting up; maybe scanners are too. Maybe EOS got the numbers wrong. Maybe he should make his way back outside, find safety.

The hair on the base of his neck prickles, and he lurches to a stop in the middle of a corridor he's certain he's inspected, heart thudding too loud as it supplies blood to his damaged eardrums.

A shadow flutters to his left, real or imagined, he doesn't know, but he follows the guidance of some instinct he can't explain and snaps the searchlight off. Holding his breath accomplishes nothing, but he holds it anyway as he watches a dark form press its back against the nearest cubicle wall. A second shadow stands in the same room, gesturing wildly.

Cool relief soothes Alan's frazzled nerves. At least two of the people he needs to find are still alive and well. He quickens his pace as much as he dares, but jerks to a stop as a shout punches its way through the silence.

The relaxed way the person is leaning against the glass wall sets off alarm bells in Alan's mind. He edges a few steps back until he can duck behind a half-open office door.

"Do you think it drew them away?" a rough voice asks.

"Of course it did," a woman replies, "but we need International Rescue, not one of the firefighters!"

"Yeah, but which _one_? He didn't exactly specify."

"The dark-haired one. I think he's on the ground, should be easy enough to find. You better hurry too, or else he won't—"

"All right, _all right_ , I'll go."

A door slams, and Alan shrinks deeper into the office, only to freeze when a sheet of paper crunches like ice breaking under his foot. Adrenaline floods his system like a rogue ocean wave, smashing with overwhelming force into the sheer wall of terror upon the edge of which he's standing.

Heavy footsteps clomp toward him, pounding out the rhythm of his thrashing heart. Alan holds his breath and prays he won't be discovered.

One person, a hulking figure shrouded in darkness, marches past the half-open door with a determination that makes him seem even larger. Mercifully, his footsteps begin to fade, and Alan hunches forward to ease the tight pain in his chest. _What_ _'s going on_?

He's brought up short when a second person appears, shorter, slimmer, and, most concerning, moving slower. The silhouette of her head swivels like a security camera, and Alan can only hope it isn't inferred as he forces himself to hold still.

What feels like minutes tick past, marked only by the drops of sweat that trickle down the outside of his cheeks.

And then finally, finally, she turns and pads away on silent feet.

Alan makes himself wait, counting a slow thirty seconds before he dares move. The wave of adrenaline leaves like a riptide, dragging his balance away with it, and he crashes to his knees, gasping for air. He shuts his eyes and braces his palms on the coarse carpet. This—this can't be happening.

Okay, steady breaths. What would John say if his calm voice was in its usual place in Alan's ear instead of the terrifying ring that fills the silence? _Don_ _'t jump to conclusions_. He has no idea who these people are, what they're doing, and why they're looking for Virgil.

Alan's eyes fly open as his lungs seize. _Or Scott_. Either of his brothers could be targets.

Targets.

 _No_. There must be an innocent explanation. Perhaps they want to inform them of the new explosion. Or maybe they found survivors in the building somewhere and want assistance. Alan nods, gulps in a shaky breath. That makes sense.

His stomach lurches. _No_. There's nothing right about this. Those people are as innocent as that first man back at the fire. A shudder pulses through Alan, and he hopes for a miracle. "Scott? Virg? Do you read me?"

There is no reply. Of course there isn't. This is not a city that lends itself to miracles.

* * *

"No, no, _no_ , don't tell me they're gone _again_!" Scott growls as he wipes a hand across his forehead, leaving a trail of soot in its wake. "I just need one piece of good news right now, not another damn comm failure!"

John yanks his helmet off and sucks in a deep breath of unfiltered air, winces as his trachea is rubbed raw by corrosive smoke. They're standing at the foot of a twisted, blackened husk that was a restaurant a few hours ago. Even through the padded, heat-resistant layers of his firefighting suit—bulkier and less tight than his spacesuit—the heat is unbearable, especially considering he can barely stand Tracy Island's subtropical temperatures. "A crew of firefighters is heading to the new explosion. That's good news, Scott. They'll handle it."

Scott's brows hit his hairline. "No, John, it's not. Because that sentence contained the phrase _new explosion_!"

John blows air through gritted teeth and traces the line of Scott's taut shoulders, his knotted fists, the way his chest heaves with each breath, rising and falling in counterpoint to John's own. They're both exhausted after hours of fighting relentless conflagrations, but the physical labor is only responsible for the burn of overworked muscles. The heavy fatigue smothering his mind and oozing from his bones—he's been fighting that since EOS routed the call to the island. He could not have picked a worse time to take his mandatory biannual vacation.

He didn't have to accompany his brothers, probably he shouldn't have, but he needed to visit the city he's dreamed about so often that he'd swear he was here a year ago. Now he stands less than five miles from the lives he ruined, and every cell in his body cries out with the understanding that this is real.

He isn't dreaming this time.

Definitely not dreaming, he decides, holding a deep breath of ashy air in his lungs as long as he dares before exhaling. "Scott, we don't know what this is—"

"That's right, we don't." Scott steps toward him, blue eyes alight with the strength of the fire they just extinguished. "We don't know _anything_ about this, and that is unacceptable. We've got Alan and Gordon traversing a building on their own—"

"They'll be fine."

"And Vrig is up there trying to save more kids' lives!"

"Virgil can handle it—"

Scott throws his arms wide with a sharp burst of humorless laughter. "Look around us, Johnny—it looks like we're in a _war zone_. I tried to give this situation the benefit of the doubt, but if I thought something was off before, now I'm pretty damn sure of it."

"I know where we are, Scott," John snaps, and then wishes he'd kept his mouth closed. Control. Detached control is what he needs. It is... more difficult to maintain than he expected, but now isn't the time to give the turmoil inside him a voice. He knows something is off. Of course he does, he knew from the moment comms began to die. EOS is strong and clever; it takes a lot for her to be pulled down. But what can they do? They're here to save lives and battle fires, and John's ashamed that he's been glad for the distraction from memories that threaten to override his system.

Scott's dimples deepen when he's angry—or scared—and right now they're as dark as John's ever seen them. Scott doesn't say anything, though, and John's grateful. This is neither the place nor the time to peel open old wounds.

"John's right, I could handle it." Virgil's deep, melodic voice embraces the air like a favorite song, and a snarl of emotions in John's chest loosens as he turns away from Scott. Virgil's uniform is streaked with black, face glistening with exertion, but he gives a small smile. "The fire crew pulled through and the blasted thing finally gave out. My hands are _aching_." He flexes them to prove his point. "Now do you want to say how odd this situation is any louder, Scott? I think some of the firefighters didn't hear you."

Scott narrows his eyes, but the line of his shoulders has already smoothed out dramatically since their younger brother appeared. He places a hand on Virgil's arm and draws him forward so the three of them form a circle. "Sorry, I'm just—"

"Scared? I know." Virgil dips his head in John's direction, a form of solidarity between brothers who understand Scott better than he understands himself.

Scott huffs. "I'm not scared, I'm frustrated—"

"No, you're scared. So am I." Virgil lowers his voice as a firefighter passes behind them. "I had to send Gordon and Alan off on their own, and now we can't reach either of them."

"They'll be _fine_ ," John repeats, and although he too is reluctantly fearful for their little brothers—Alan in particular—he knows they deserve all the faith he can give them. They've been trained by the world's best, and they have good heads on their shoulders. They'll make it back.

Virgil chews on his lip and inspects their surroundings for eavesdroppers before looking to John with an expression he recognizes. It precedes the request for hard data, for a reasonable explanation. "So this doesn't feel strange to you? Because I'm with Scott. Something's not right."

The problem is, John has nothing reasonable to say. He's cut off from every source of data, left to fumble about in the dark like everyone else, which doesn't happen very often. He comes to the solid conclusion he detests being in this position. "Something's not right? Hmm, well, we've had four supposed 'gas explosions' in buildings that are in the same general vicinity. Then our state of the art communication system keeps going down. So yes, _strange_ is the right for it."

Virgil raises an eyebrow. Scott grunts, his version of a laugh when he's too tired to go the distance. "So you're scared too, huh?"

Cutting words sting John's lips, scrape the sides of his already tender throat when he forces himself to swallow them back. Not now. He can't afford to let his emotions influence him, not when they're throwing themselves with reckless abandon at the wall that is his control. There are lives on the line—lives he won't risk merely because his reactions aren't being tempered by distance and a whole world of data at his fingertips.

Virgil's eyes flicker between him and Scott, glinting like coals under pressure as they catch the light. He leans in and lowers his voice. "Listen, I know we don't want to talk about last time we were here... I just can't help but feel that—"

"Are you International Rescue?"

Virgil's mouth clamps shut, and he takes a step back as a bearded man almost the size of Virgil runs up to them. He's gasping, gray eyes wide, and doesn't seem to take in the smoldering mess they're standing next to. "Please, you have to help them!"

For the first time since they arrived, John feels like he's in familiar territory. "Help who, sir?" Beside him, Scott's already on alert, looking around to see if he's missed anything important.

The man turns and points a shaking hand in the direction he came from. "The kids!"

John fights to keep his expression neutral as he follows his line of sight toward the place he's been avoiding all day.

The school.

Dread bubbles sticky and rancid in his gut. He no longer smells burned drywall or sees the carnage before him; he's transported by words, back to _Thunderbird Five_ , back to a phone call.

"At the school," the man continues, in perfect synchronization with the memory looping through John's head, "they're _trapped_!"

A frigid numbness seeps into John's chest, flash-freezing the writhing ball of emotions and offering startling clarity. To one side of him, Virgil has stiffened, pale face a violent contrast with his dark hair. On the other, Scott glares at the man, a muscle in his hard jaw pulsing, but his eyes shimmer with an underlying terror. It's something John recognizes intellectually but can't bring himself to experience.

He's heard those words over and over in his head ever since it happened the first time. He's replayed that scene to see if there was something— _anything_ —different he could do. Never did he think he'd hear them again, especially not _here_.

Perhaps this is what he's been waiting for. John doesn't believe in fate, but this might be his chance to fix his mistakes, redeem what was lot.

Or it might happen all over again.

* * *

Alan can't find the last two people.

EOS said ten, he found six, stumbled across two more that still make his heart trip over itself when he thinks about them, but he can't find the last two people. He can't get through to his brothers. The fire crew hasn't shown up. Dizzy, his ears ringing, Alan is stuck in an eroding building with only his brother's searchlight to guide him, disoriented and abandoned.

Each floor he inspects widens the hollow cavern in his torso. Searching a building is supposed to be fast and easy, but this time he's walking with tentative steps, always inside the shadows, instead of plunging ahead in a race against the clock. Alan finds himself holding his breath whenever he hears a noise, even though it makes his head ring louder. Paranoia creeps in, eating into him just as the fire eats into the building.

Now he's in the stairwell between floors four and five with no idea what to do and no desire to leave anyone behind. If there are still people in here, he wants to find them.

But he also wants to rejoin his brothers.

Because whatever he heard, it wasn't good. His stomach twists every time he rounds a corner, even though there's never anything to see. But convincing himself there's a simple explanation—he misunderstood or perhaps misheard due to his unreliable hearing—isn't working anymore. He finds himself constantly trying to hail his brothers, EOS, _anyone_. "Scott? Virgil? Do you read me?" Not even white noise fills the gaps between his words now. "John? Gordon?" Nothing.

He's given up expecting a response. He's entirely cut off, torn between a duty to find these people and the crushing burden of knowing his brothers are in danger. Whoever these people are, they're after Scott or Virgil, and Alan doesn't know _why_.

More than anything, he doesn't want a repeat of last year. So maybe he wasn't here in person with his brothers, but he felt the effects of what they lost keenly. In the weeks after, he watched as Virgil withdrew and became a hollow shell of his former self, as Scott buried himself in work. John went incommunicado except for when IR was needed, and Gordon forgot how to smile.

It can't happen again. Alan won't let it.

That seals his decision to sweep the building one last time. It's probably futile, but he can't have people die on his watch. Not here.

So he retraces his steps to the fourth floor and eases the heavy door open far enough for him to slip through into the corridor beyond. He's about to let the door swing shut behind him when he hears the sound of boots pounding against concrete.

Alan's instincts take over and force him to grab the door before it can clang shut. His fingers get caught between moving steel and immovable steel, and he barely manages to muffle his yelp. Heat pulses through his squashed digits, but at least the door latches silently behind him as he presses himself against a deeply shadowed wall and holds his breath.

Two large figures, both made more hulking by the firefighter uniforms they wear, shove through the door responsible for the crushing ache in Alan's hand. He exhales, annoyed he let his paranoia get the best of him. If a crew has been dispatched to this building, that means they must be finished over at the hospital. Virgil saved those kids.

Smiling, Alan takes a step forward, ready to let them take over, but then he stops.

There's no fire on level four.

As far as he's aware, it's contained on floor two. Every single nerve in Alan's body fires up an electrical charge that tells him to _avoid these people_.

Instead, ever so cautious, he follows them, sticking to the gloomy parts of the corridor, hovering back until he can dart forward into the next patch of cover. Maintaining distance is key, even though part of him wants to race up and confront them. Best case scenario is they really _are_ firefighters, walking a routine check. It's possible. Plausible, even. The worst is that, somehow, these people are linked to the other two he saw. Linked to the explosions.

A crackling line of static forces its way into the air. For a moment, Alan's sure it's EOS, and he inadvertently flinches. Then he realizes it's a radio on the hip of one of the men he's trailing. He halts and detaches it, bringing it up to his mouth.

Alan halts too, blood running cold.

Muffled words call from the radio. There are grunts from the man holding it, before he signs off with a simple, "All right."

Alan tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, which is as real as the two people before him.

"It's been confirmed," the man says as he hooks the radio back onto his belt. "The youngest operative should still be in here somewhere."

"What? I thought they already had eyes on him."

"Nah, there's another one. Blond too, apparently."

"What?"

"Don't ask me. _He_ 's set on this one now, so we have to find him."

"Of course we do." The second man snorts. "Fine, let's just make this quick."

They start to move, swinging their own searchlights around the corridor. Alan shrinks back and doesn't breathe until they're out of sight. Even then, he only takes small sips of air, afraid to risk the slightest noise.

Sweat dribbles down Alan's back. These people are looking for _him_. He has no idea why, and his brain's too overwrought to figure it out. Did these people start the fires? Who are they? Why do they want him?

He squeezes his eyes shut and bites the inside of his cheek. The who and why don't matter right now. All that matters is he's in danger and he has no idea what to do. Panic's rising like a storm surge, and he clings to crumbling ground as he fights the instinct to run.

He wants a brother by his side, but there's no way that's happening. If they aren't coming to him, he has to get to them, or at least reach other emergency services. But... the men were dressed as firefighters, and the other two as civilians. Alan doesn't know who he can trust or talk to.

His brothers, he has to find them. It's his only option.

But how is he going to reach them without getting caught?

Trapped in this maze of frosted glass, alone, afraid, he's reminded once again of their chess set back on the island. Chills seize his heart when he realizes he and his brothers are not heroes or knights, strolling around and saving people. They've become pawns in whatever game is being played, and Alan can't shake the certainty they're on the losing end of checkmate.


	3. Grief Above the Distant Land

"There are kids at the school, they're trapped!"

John had heard many breathless and shaken voices today, and this phone call was no exception. Unrestrained panic punched through the still, dry air of the commsphere. Too distanced to be in any real danger, _Thunderbird Five_ 's job was to work with tireless precision, to ensure that in every capacity, those on the ground were safe. She received transmissions, used her not-inconsiderable processing power to muscle into secure systems, and never missed a beat.

It wasn't her fault John's human error caused delay. It never was.

Mostly because it hardly ever happened. John usually ran parallel to his Thunderbird: still and unaffected. The ability to remain detached and thus calm was his greatest asset as the person to work dispatch, alongside a tireless dedication that saved lives over and over.

John lost that separation when he was overwhelmed. He lost it when Virgil and those kids disappeared. Everything poised about him had been blown out the airlock. But John didn't have time to lose control.

The principle of the school was barking in his ear every five minutes, sitting alongside the Chief of Police. The fire crews were on standby and wanted updates. Eleven kids were still trapped in building C. Scott was about to go get them but of course needed every bit of information before he entered the building. Alan's hologram, the size of his palm, was ever-floating in a precious segment of unused space, asking questions from home at the worst possible times.

John's ears were abuzz with concerns, questions, and information that did nothing except hinder. All he wanted was one moment of silence so he could clear his head or even switch from embedded comms to the commsphere's speaker system, but he couldn't afford to waste a nanosecond. Gordon was the only one who didn't need instructions, yet John's eyes were always half-trained on his figure. Unnervingly silent for one reason only, Gordon was charged with traversing rubble, headed in search of their lost brother.

Virgil was there one moment, gone the next, and John had been too busy watching everyone and everywhere else to notice. Now thoughts of him and those kids were taking over John's perfectly ordered and strategized mind, to the point where he could barely focus.

Communications flooded _Five_ 's systems once the aftershocks hit; every possible person wanted updates, and he had to try his best to give them the latest information while still directing his brothers.

That man's call, the single red light blinking away on _Five_ 's switchboard interface, John saved for last. He didn't have time for distraught parents, that was the sad truth of the matter. It was a delay _Thunderbird Five_ would have been ashamed of.

When John finally did answer, the man told him nothing he didn't already know. "There are kids at the school, they're trapped!"

John's reply was clipped, only half-focused as he rotated the layout of the school to find Virgil's last known position. "Sir, I am aware. We are currently working on that situation. The aftershock caused more buildings to become unstable, but we are moving as quickly as we ca—"

"No, _no_ , I have them on the phone—my son's friend, he called me—"

John registered his comment, but it was shifted to low priority when he spotted something on the schematics. "Sir, hold on just a moment." Out of habit, he toggled the option that would mute his end of the call; then he devoted all his attention to the green dots appearing in what his data claimed was a classroom.

"Virgil? Are you back with us?" he asked, allowing none of the concern and hope clashing in his chest to seep into his voice. "Scott, Gordon, I've got a read on Virgil and—" _Three_ , _four_ , _five_... John exhaled. "Six others."

"—ohn? You hearing me now?" Virgil's hologram leapt to life. His voice crunched, dry as dust, and the force of his coughs pounded through John's head, discordant against the beat of his own heart. Virgil and the kids were alive, though, and that was all that mattered.

Scott never stopped moving on his journey through the next building. Only John, in a moment of snatched time, saw the way he closed his eyes and mouthed a silent _thank you_. "Virg? You okay?"

"I... _yeah_." Blood matted one temple, cutting through a heavy layer of dust as it trickled down his face and began to soak the collar of his suit. "We went all dark over here, man—that classroom just... j-just _fell_ apart. Something must have gotten in the way of the t-transmissions, there was a... a—"

" _Virgil_." Concern over Virgil's vacancy wormed up John's spine, attempting to overrun his already disarrayed mind, but he locked it out. "Are the kids all right?"

"Yes... yes, they're all here," Virgil replied, hand rising to press against his head as though it hurt to think. His fingers came away blotted with blood, made a dark, plumy color by the hologram's blue cast. "A bit shocked and f-frightened, but I'll get them... out..." There was a pause as he closed his eyes, lips pinched and nostrils flared.

John kept his face blank by force of habit only. If he alerted his other brothers to his mounting worry over Virgil's condition, they too would become distracted, so he kept a firm hold over his concern, immobilizing it at the junction between neck and shoulders. That was the problem with being omniscient: he got to decide who know what and when. "Gordon, I still need you to head to Virgil's position."

Gordon, who hadn't moved since hearing Virgil's voice, nodded and leaped forward, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sure thing, John. I'm heading to you, Virg—we'll get those kids out together."

Virgil's arms shifted as he gathered the children closer to his body. "FAB," he whispered.

John made himself look away from Virgil. He had no idea what happened or what went wrong, and he wouldn't know until he took a proper look at all the statistics and feeds. There was no time for that, nor could he concern himself with why Virgil wasn't acting normal. There was a red light that continued to blink at him, and he had delayed this one for far too long. He tapped _unmute_. "Sorry, sir, what were you saying?"

The man on the other end was no less distressed. "My _son_! He's still trapped in the gym—his friend has a phone and he's saying that... that the roof's going to—"

John tore his gaze away from Virgil and, for the first time, focused all his attention on the flashing light. "Hold on, did you say the gym?"

"Y-yes, they're trapped in there and I—"

 _Gym_. John used both hands to spin the layout of the school and find what he was looking for. A large, square building near Virgil's art classroom showed no signs of life. John narrowed his eyes. He didn't _miss_ things like that. "Sir, are you sure—"

"Yes, I'm sure!" John winced as the man's voice hit the pitch unique to a person who was able to do nothing to help someone they cared about. "I have them on the phone—they told me where they are. Please, just find them!"

John's fingers moved of their own accord to open a blank comm channel and then returned to more relevant tasks. Really, he didn't miss things like this—the kids were likely among the eleven still trapped in building C, so he allowed his attention to split back to his brothers.

"I promise we'll do everything we can." Unlike Virgil and Gordon, John never made promises he couldn't keep. "First I'm going to need you to give me that number."

The man passed it over, and after John once more assured him they would do everything possible, the old blinking light was replaced by a new one. John stole a moment to take a breath. Despite assumptions, dealing with kids wasn't foreign to him at all. He grew up with three younger siblings, and he understood that these children—trapped and frightened, wherever they were—needed him focused and calm.

Everybody needed him to be calm and focused when he wasn't. With a sharp gesture, he reduced the level of everyone else's communication feeds to quarter volume before activating the call.

"This is International Rescue," he said, softening the clipped edges of his voice. A wavering sob on the other end earned his full attention. "We're going to do everything we can to get you out of there. Now, can you tell me your name?"

The whisper was so quiet that John had to turn the sensitivity up to max. "R-Reed."

"Okay, Reed, do you know where you are?"

"Y-yes."

When no further information was revealed, John frowned. "Can you tell me?"

"We... we were in the gym... we weren't meant to be, b-but we decided to come in to practice for the weekend game, and I... we didn't mean to, we weren't supposed to be here, but n-now we're stuck—" His voice was tainted by a rising anxiety that didn't belong with the innocence of youth.

As the boy talked, John worked on locating the phone's GPS signal. Within a matter of seconds, a new dot appeared in the lower quadrant of the school gym. John punched his fist through a scrolling readout displaying wind speeds, scattering the hologram. _How had he missed this_?

He had to stop grinding his teeth together before he could speak. "All right, Reed, I need you to tell me how many others are with you."

"Mm... five?"

"Is anyone hurt?"

"Kaleb's leg is stuck, and... and April's hurt her arm... They're freaking out, _please_ , can you just get us out of here? It's going to fall!"

John swallowed, took a precious moment to shield himself against the quiver that wanted to rattle apart his own words. He had to forever be a counterbalance. "All right, Reed, you keep talking to me, okay? Tell me about that game you've got on Saturday."

As the boy rambled in the background, John weighed the next decision he had to make. Scott was the sensible option to send, but he was too far away. Virgil was closest and should be the one to go, but he had his own group of children to get to safety.

There was only one option.

In a single swift movement, he swiped the data over to Gordon's helmet HUD. "Gordon, you're changing course, these are the coordinates. Tell Virgil he has to get out on his own—I've... I've missed something."

Gordon didn't question him, because all his brothers knew that when he admitted to missing something, it was serious. "FAB."

Another icon flared to life, indicating the Police Chief wanted to speak to him. John ignored it. "Reed? Help is on the way now. I need you to do something for me—I need you to keep your friends calm. Can you do that?"

Heavy breathing whistled in John's ears and made his chest ache in sympathy. "Y-yes... I'll try... but it's getting hard to breathe—"

"I know," John soothed, even as he was assaulted by memories of baby brothers with tear-stained faces after a nightmare. He ruthlessly jammed the memories into the corner of his mind and yanked heavy shielding into place over them. _Later_. "One of our best operatives is making his way to you as we speak."

"Okay..." Reed's voice was smaller, if possible, a raspy wheeze. "So... we'll get out?"

"Of course you will." John had no doubt Gordon would get there in time. "Okay, Reed, I want you to tell me wh—"

Then, before his eyes—eyes that could only ever watch from a distance—the world fell apart. John curled in on himself, hands flying to his ears as the noise levels jumped seventy-five percent. Alarms assaulted him from all sides, boring holes into his brain through which everything else entered: the shouts of frantic brothers, an onslaught of emergency calls, _Reed_ , his cries lost among the frenzied mess that filled John's head.

The loudest sound was at the other end of the phone: a horrible, splintering rip, then the empty void of silence. John unfurled his limbs as the explosion in his head calmed down, flicked his gaze across the strobing holograms, and called for the only person he didn't have eyes on. "Reed? _Reed_ , can you hear me? Reed, I need you to... can you _hear_ me?"

The red light blinked at him, steady as a heartbeat.

* * *

It's like the start to the worst offender of John's reoccurring nightmares.

"There are kids at the school," the man standing in front of him repeats, "they're trapped! I heard them, and I know I saw flames." His gray eyes beseech them to do something.

John doesn't blame him. When three rescue personnel don't leap into action upon hearing "kids" and "trapped" and "flames" in the same sentence, it's usually something to be concerned about. But—there's no way for this man to possibly understand why what he's saying is the last thing John wants to hear.

He's certain, in a vague, disinterested sort of way, that his lungs are collapsing.

After the debacle that was the first mission here in Kingston, all John wanted was to get away from _Thunderbird Five_. Away from her suddenly claustrophobic confines, away from her isolation, her inability to _really_ help. Now he'd give anything to be back up there. He's a master of detaching himself from a situation, especially when he's in space. It was the only way he coped last year.

Everything's different now that his boots are on solid ground. It's hard to detach when he's staring at a school where seven kids died and it was his fault.

It's Virgil—pale and vacant, just like he was a year ago—who finally breaks the stunned silence. "All right, sir... we'll send someone over there. If you'd just come with me—" He reaches for the man's arm, no doubt as eager as John is to pass him off to the nearest officer, only to jump back when the man bats his hand away.

"Don't worry about me, just find those kids!" he snaps, shoving strands of hair that have blown loose from their tie behind his ear. His body's turned toward Virgil, but his eyes keep darting to Scott, even though Scott hasn't moved once. "I heard them screaming. You have to hurry—"

"Sir, we will, I promise," Virgil says in a voice as solid as he is. John's chest shudders at Virgil's aptitude to make promises like that. It's not sensible, nor does it leave room for mistakes. John's intolerance for self-made errors means it only hurts worse when he fails. He has no idea how his more emotive brother lives with the endless list of promises he's had to break.

Virgil places a gentle hand on the man's back and this time is allowed to lead him away, muttering low comforts in a sympathetic voice only he can achieve. Already the man's shoulders have relaxed and his posture softened.

John has to look at the ash-smeared ground. Usually he's an advocate for strong eye contact, but right now he can't face it. Especially if it's with Scott, who's able to read him with uncomfortable accuracy. John closes his eyes, only to snap them open again when that red light blinks emptily at him from where it's burned into the insides of his eyelids. The memory corresponds with a silence he usually loves, but right now he dreads it more than the chaotic noise.

Reed's silence reminds him of Gordon and Alan and the way they're cut off.

His next breath stutters as his lungs constrict, sharp and painful. He risks a glance at Scott, expecting anger or frustration or even fear, but instead Scott's face is lined with confused concentration. "I... I recognize that man," he murmurs. "But I can't recall where from..."

"Are you sure you're not confusing him with someone else?" John asks, deliberately hardening his voice until it's cold and blunt as granite. He can't trust his own memories and emotions, not when they're bleeding into one another, not while he's _here_. Separation is essential, and he needs to regain that.

"No, I'm sure I've seen him before." Scott watches the man without turning his head. "Don't you think he's familiar?"

"Not at all," John says, and it's the truth. He's good with voices, not faces, and right now one civilian, familiar or not, is irrelevant.

"So what do we do?" Virgil rejoins them, and John watches as he captures all of Scott's attention. From the minute they touched down, Virgil has done an appalling job of hiding his feelings—at least from his brothers. The way he crosses his arms and thrusts his chin forward is how he projects an illusion of strength. If he's still holding himself together enough to manage that, John sees no reason to divide his concern to include him too.

When Virgil doesn't receive an answer, he tries again from a different angle. "We've had no reports of fire in the school as far as we know... but comms are still down, aren't they? Do we..." He unfolds his arms to rub one hand down the side of his leg. John's not sure why—all of the blood is on _his_ hands. "Do we go back inside—"

"Not you," Scott says, immediate and nonnegotiable.

Virgil's eyes flash as the embers within are stoked. "Scott, you can't be seri—"

"I want you two to stay here," Scott continues, already inventorying the contents of his sash and belt. "Finish up the fires and get in contact with Gordon and Alan. Okay? I'll come back if I need help, or, better yet, the useless comms with kick back into—"

"No," John says, determined to end this foolishness now, even though it means he has to endure the full weight of Scott's military-honed glare. Only long years of practice enable him to match it with one of his own. Scott blinks first, brows pinching until they join, and John experiences a moment of smugness when he realizes Scott's forgotten how to deal with him—and his ability to defy—when he's on the ground instead of twenty-two thousand miles above his head.

"I'll go," he says. And then his brain catches up with his mouth and he feels like he's been punched in the solar plexus. Even though there's a part of him that is certain he has to go, he can't help wondering if he's making the biggest mistake of his life.

The relief lingering in the deepest recesses of Scott's eyes assures him that he isn't. Neither of them ever want Virgil to go back onto those grounds, especially not on his own. He didn't talk for three weeks after he left last time, and him shutting them out is an experience John never wants repeated. Not with Virgil, anyway. John shut himself up in _Five_ and refused non-mission-related conversations, but it wasn't like anyone noticed.

So even though his heart's sinking, weighed down by a terrible sorrow, he pushes himself to his full height. "I'll go," he repeats. Better him than Virgil. "All the officials are dealing with you, Scott—they need you here. I'll go over, take a look. If it's nothing, I'll come back. If it's something, I'll handle it."

Scott's eyes flicker over him, studying. "I don't think that's a good idea—"

"Scott." John shifts so he's square with his brother and tilts his open palms toward him. Let Scott read him. Let him see how he wants to do this—needs to do this, needs to go there and atone for the mistakes he made. Perhaps it will bring some sort of clarity or even closure—hell knows he needs it.

So he meets Scott head-on, because Scott's not allowed to worry about him—that's the one rule between them. He can worry all he wants about the other three, but John can handle himself and they both know it.

There's a pause before Scott nods, a small but firm movement. "Fine," he says, too neutral for John to work out whether he understands his motives or he doesn't want to go back in himself. Either way, John doesn't blame him. "Check it out. As soon as comms come back on, you radio in, all right? Virg and I will finish up here. We'll be hot on your heels if you need anything."

"All right." John unclips his _Fire Tender_ from his belt to check its gauges, finds them all within acceptable levels, and reattaches it.

Virgil rubs his temple. "Orson—that man—he said he's pretty sure the children are trapped on the back of the property. You're... you're sure you don't want me to—"

"No." _Never again_. John squeezes Virgil's shoulder gently as he circles around him. He dips his head in response, and John pretends he doesn't see the way the tight lines around his eyes smooth out.

Scott's turned his back on them so he can watch the man who brought them the news that hit them at their most vulnerable. Without turning around, he thrusts out an arm at the right time so John bumps into it and leans closer, as though the whole world is listening in. "Be careful, all right? Something feels... strange."

"We've established that," John responds as he pushes Scott's arm down. "Don't worry, Scott. I won't make the same mistakes as last time."

He doesn't let himself look back as he walks away, even though he's aware of Scott's gaze pressing with physical weight against his shoulder blades. There are a million things they should have talked through but never did, and he decides right there, between one step and the next, that they're going to talk this out as a family once they're home. The time for purposeful ignorance is over.

 _Right_. Like it's possible to ignore how time seems to be somehow repeating itself. Why, he doesn't know. Maybe it's just the universe taunting him by throwing his worst failure back in his face. Maybe there's a grand life lesson he's supposed to learn. Or maybe he's trapped in the most vivid dream he's ever had because his subconscious feels the need to explore old wounds.

Dream or reality, it doesn't matter. There are kids stuck in that building, and John knows he can't afford to delay. He won't let human error get the best of him this time.

So he jogs forward as the memory of a phone call leans with considerable weight against the wall in his mind he's cultivated for years, the one that blocks emotions trying to hinder his performance. Right now, his wall is fragile, transparent glass that is easily broken by memories and regrets turned by grief into concrete boulders.

If he'd been faster, if he hadn't focused on Virgil, if he'd taken the call sooner, if he'd found them in the first place, then maybe those kids would be alive right now. Maybe six families wouldn't have been left to grieve alongside him. It's a thought that always makes him feel guilty, because it was their children, not his, who perished. Their pain was so much worse than his. He just... felt he couldn't share it with anyone. His brothers hurt just as much as he did; they didn't need to bear the weight of his guilt too.

They needed to know he was okay, so he had to be okay, if only for them.

Now, as he approaches a plot of land sullied by innocent blood, John finds he's once again left with no one to talk to. Not out of choice, that's for sure. He can't even channel EOS to his side, where she's been ever since her arrival months ago. Out of force of habit, his fingers stray to the commpad built into his left sleeve, but the interface is limited and he can do nothing to restore comms from the field. The problem is tantalizing, if a huge pain in the ass right now, but he's forcing himself to wait until they're flying away from this nightmare of a city to figure out why _Thunderbird Five_ is still being blocked. There are children he needs to rescue.

Despite the disasters that have befallen the city in the last few hours, it's unnervingly quiet as he approaches a school that holds too many ghosts he can no longer protect himself from, even within the fortress of his own mind.

Smoke rises into the sky from a nearby building—the source of the most recent explosion—and John can't help but yearn for assurance that his younger brothers are all right. He wonders if somehow the fire has spread from there or whether a new fire has sprung up.

The school that once hovered in the background is now before him, a group of evenly spaced buildings, all steel beams and panes of glossy blue glass that reflect the heavy, billowing gray clouds and present the illusion that the buildings are moving, breathing—living things ready to buck and heave once more.

 _The back of the property_. That could be anywhere in theory. Without EOS and the data she would normally supply, he can't know for sure where to start looking, so he lets his feet carry him.

They take him exactly where he expects—and exactly where he doesn't want to go.

There's a row of connected buildings unlike the others on the far corner of the property. The face of the school is refurbished, recognizable, even, but this group remains completely unchanged. This is the sight John remembers seeing, still sees sometimes in the dead of the night, and as always, it steals the air from his lungs. Earthquake damage is still visible, with boarded-up windows and scaffolding spread down the length of the exterior walls.

There's nowhere better to hunt for missing kids than decommissioned buildings. John can't see smoke or flames rising from any of the rooms, so it doesn't narrow his search down. He has to trust his instincts, even though he's aware there's a very real possibility his instincts will do nothing but lead him astray.

It's a risk he has to take.

He pushes open the entrance's left door and feels like he's stepped back in time. The dark hallway is untouched by renovation, still hauntingly similar to how it looked a year ago. Part of the ceiling has been bandaged up, but the walls still run with cracks, and the floor feels uneven beneath the heavy soles of his boots. John takes a deep breath of dry, musty air, retrieves his _Fire Tender_ so he can hold it at the ready, and begins to walk over dusty linoleum.

Shivers crawl beneath his suit. It is a very particular kind of grief that looms here—an untouched and undiscovered sadness that triggers restless nights and brings death to the forefront of his mind.

John walks on, defying with everything he has the thoughts that threaten to crumble him. As quick as possible, he opens classroom doors and scans for any signs of fire or children, but all he's met with is disconcerting vacancy. Classrooms are barren, stripped of any personal effects, and empty desks and tables where children and teachers once sat are now smothered under a lifeless gray dust. Together, they paint an unwelcome image of tragedy.

He carefully skirts a bank of tipped lockers and opens the next door. Flickers of light catch his eye, and he raises the _Fire Tender_ , ready to combat fire. But no. Abandoned to time itself is a mosaic in the far corner of the window. It's grungy and a few pieces of glass are missing, but it continues to spill dapples of red and orange onto the cracked floor.

When John's mind figures out it's not fire, he shuts the door, extinguishes the light, and thinks no more of it.

There's a set of metal double doors at the end of the corridor, criss-crossed by sagging police tape. A dull ringing in John's ears warns him not to enter, tells him that—rationally—the children won't be in there. Without a hint of fire in this building, he should focus his attention elsewhere.

But he has to see the place where they died with his own eyes. The impersonal layout of blueprints and the grainy recording from a helmet cam aren't enough. Those children deserve any respect he can pay them while he's here. So John yanks aside the tape and pushes both doors open with the intention of remaining strong, stoic, unmoved.

He intended to save those kids, too.

Four steps. He makes it four steps into a long, wide mezzanine before he turns around and marches back to the doorway. He shouldn't be here. There are other children to save. They, not this gym, are his chance to redeem himself.

He pauses with his hands on the doors. Is he here for his own sake or for the children who died?

It's hard to turn around—harder than he expects, limbs weighed down with something more malicious than gravity. Three battered picnic tables form a haphazard line down the center of the mezzanine, and a row of lockers stretches across the long wall to his right. A small office, devices for keeping score and a computer visible through its window, is nestled into the far end of the mezzanine, past a staircase that blueprints seared into John's mind inform him provides access to the sub-level washrooms, change rooms, equipment rooms, and beyond them...

The court.

He has to take several fortifying breaths before he can approach the all-glass railing with tentative steps. Twenty feet below his boots are the ruins of a basketball court—the setting of more than a few nightmares. One of the nets has dislodged from its moorings and shattered the blue tiles beneath where it fell. Heavy chunks of rubble still cover the corner of the gym opposite where John's standing, swept there in a half-hearted attempt to return some sort of normality.

Or to hide the bloodstains.

There's a long spiderweb of a crack in the glass in front of him, and even though the panel reaches the bottom of his ribcage, even though heights have never bothered him a day in his life, he stumbles away from the edge, profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of being anywhere near as fragile as his mind is right now. Sweat clusters on his temples when he realizes _this_ was where the kids were as they listened to him—a stranger, yes, but _International Rescue_ —offer false promises of a way out.

He spins around, unable to look at the gym any longer, because he thinks he might throw up. He feels like a killer revisiting the scene of his most ingenious murder.

Palms sting as they slap against an opportunely positioned table, head bows, eyes squeeze shut. And as he inhales slowly, two, three, four through his nose, holds it one, two in lungs that feel too small, and exhales two, three, four, five, he wonders if he's living off the same air that couldn't sustain Reed and Kaleb and April and the others.

 _Don_ _'t let it happen again_.

John's head snaps up and his jaw hardens. He's here on a job, not to relive memories. In a single sharp motion, he shoves himself upright, suddenly craving the sound of another person's voice. Anything would be better than this dreadful silence. "EOS? Can you read me at all?" His words waver, thick with emotion that he swallows back. "Come in, _Thunderbird Five_. Scott? Virg—"

There is an answer, but not one he wants.

A fizzing cacophony of noise blitzes through his eardrums, tipping him off balance. He catches himself by twisting his fingers into the slats of the table and is left gasping when a piercing screech precedes the noise zapping into oblivion.

Slumped over the table and ears ringing, he tries to figure out what the hell just happened. He and Brains designed their embedded comms with specific maximum output capabilities. Hearing damage caused by their own equipment would be an example of not practicing what they preach, so many, many weeks of testing went into ensuring safety parameters were locked in place.

Overriding those parameters isn't supposed to be possible. And yet.

He looks up, cautiously shaking his head to test his balance, and then pauses.

A red light appears out of nowhere.

Or perhaps it was always there, illuminating the small office before winking out again. John untangles his fingers from between the wood and stretches them without removing his gaze from the light. It blinks on and off, propelling him back to the day a year ago where he watched a damning call light up his display.

He tilts his head, confusion pushing aside the grief that always lingers at the thought. Why, in a decommissioned building, is something still receiving power?

His feet carry him toward the office. As he gets closer, the interference in his comms returns in the form of a low hum that steadily builds into a squeal. Although it isn't debilitating, just terribly uncomfortable, John fights the urge to reach up and cover both ears, as though that will help. Bringing up his comm settings proves futile—the volume is locked from an external source.

Teeth gritted, he pushes the door open and finds that the source of the blinking is not the computer itself but a series of small black boxes sitting beside it on the desk. Four antennae spike out of the top of each box, which are gathered in a circle around a central hub.

John stiffens. A rush of unpleasant understanding breaks over him as he nears the equipment, implants in his ears protesting the proximity by spitting high-pitched static.

He bears it without flinching. Tech is what he specializes in, and this doesn't belong here. No wonder EOS and their comms are down—he's never seen a jamming device this advanced outside of the GDF.

It wasn't the explosions that caused the failure—it was this. Somebody _wants_ them to be cut off from one another.

Chills gather at the nape of his neck before trickling icy trails down his spine, but he doesn't let them stop him from acting. He nudges a cream leather office chair out of the way and performs a quick inspection that reveals the jammers are self-sustaining—removing the innards is the only way to turn the devices off, so he has to get inside. He retrieves a multipurpose tool from his sash and snips through the wires connecting each jammer until the central hub is entirely severed. He lifts it, and as the noise in his ears approaches unbearable and the severity of the situation hits him all at once, he sets about slicing through the armored case.

Usually, he would make time to study it, to get inside its mind and understand how it works. He'd also like time to figure out who would benefit from shutting down International Rescue's communications.

Right now is not the time for either, so he forces his way through the reinforced metal, grateful not for the first time that Virgil insisted they all carry specially made multipurpose tools as standard gear. The metal casing separates with a screech of protest that's nothing compared to the mayhem wreaking havoc on his ears. He hopes fervently he won't suffer hearing damage.

It seems to take forever to cut through the top of the jammer, but finally he's through. He slips his fingers beneath one edge and pulls. The metal snaps easier than he expects, and the cut edge slices the tender meat of his palm as he recoils. Pain rips white-hot through his hand, and, for a moment, eclipses the noise in his head.

John clenches his fist, hissing through his teeth as blood oozes from beneath his fingers to stain the side of his torn glove, sickly brown over ashy black over International Rescue blue. He exhales slowly as he forces his hand to relax, but it's made difficult by the combination of noise and pain, and he struggles to balance the heavy jammer on bleeding fingers so he can reach inside with his good hand and tear delicate wires from their connections.

Instantly, the discordance from his comms subsides. The jammer hits the floor with a clang as John braces his forearm on the desk, blinking away a fresh bout of lightheadedness. Even breaths help it dissolve, clearing his mind enough to allow worry to take over again. He has to contact his brothers, right now, to tell them what's happened.

He has to warn them.

His ears are still ringing, so he reaches for his sash comm instead, only for his fingers to freeze before they can ghost over the insignia. There's... something. A sound, muffled but definitely nearby.

Someone else is up here.

With thoughts of arson—and worse—tumbling through his mind, he spins on his heel to find the outline of a man hovering in the shadowed doorway. Scott? No, too bulky and not tall enough. "Virg?"

The man lunges into the office, and John catches a glimpse of a familiar bearded face before he's forced to stumble backward at the sight of a combat knife clutched in Orson's hand.

"Whoa, what the—" John trips sideways, natural balance compromised by the shock of adrenaline blasting full force through his system. He steadies himself on the back of the chair, leaving a smear of blood across cream leather.

Gray eyes wild, Orson growls and strikes upward. John is not easily caught off guard, not with a mind that moves as fast as his, but he's confused and distracted and barely ducks away from a devastating blow meant to punch the blade up into the underside of his jaw.

He takes a step deeper into the office, one more step away from the door, and raises his arms in an ingrained defensive position. " _Stop_ , what are you—"

Orson strikes against with relentless fervor, and the knife—seven inches, matte black, jagged serration near the hilt—skims John's leg, ripping material but leaving skin intact. John lashes out, trying to grab Orson's arm, but the effort is clumsy, and he's shoved into the wall for his trouble. Winded, he throws an arm up to block the next attack but misjudges the distance. The tip of the blade catches in his torn glove, drags across his wrist and down his forearm, trailing a line of fire in its wake.

John snarls and pulls back as hot liquid soaks the inside of his uniform sleeve. He doesn't need to look to know it's deep.

"That's _nothing_ , you bastard," Orson growls, voice contaminated with unrelenting wrath. "Think of what _they_ went through."

"What do they have to do with—" John snaps his mouth shut, but it's too late. He's let this building and its memories distract him to the point where he's trapped himself. _Idiot_.

Orson's expression darkens, and he jabs once, twice, three times, all feints, but John's flustered now and he's driven away from the door—away from escape.

This is pathetic. He's been trained for situations like this, he's more than capable of defending himself, but he can't... can't... concentrating is proving difficult.

Inattention now can and will get him killed, so he digs his fingertips into sliced flesh and uses the breathtaking flare of pain to refocus his mind. He ducks another upward slash, blade shearing the air next to his ear, and then takes the opportunity while Orson's off balance to lash out with his own kick, but he can't move fast enough. The strike glances off Orson's calf instead of smashing through his knee, and he's forced into retreating once more.

"What are you trying to accomplish?" John asks, chest heaving as adrenaline continues to pound through him. He pulls himself into a defensive stance, willing to put up a fight as long as there's reason to. "Because I don't see why those kids bear any relevance—"

" _Those kids_?" Orson regains his footing and spits on the ground. But instead of pressing his advantage, he waits, holding his ground as he meets John's stare. "You know"—he twirls the blade, flicks droplets of blood in a tidy line up the pastel purple wall—"the young blond member of your team... he looks just like him."

Him? Who is _him_?

Doesn't matter. The young blond. Gordon—or... or _Alan_.

John's skin tingles, sharp and hot. He needs to play oblivious, needs to remain in control, needs to separate himself from the situation like he always does and always can—except he's too close this time, much, much too close. There's a tremor in the lower registers of his voice when he says, "What are you talking about?"

"It would be a shame," Orson continues, as though John hasn't spoken, "if he died here too—just like _those kids_."

The air rushes out of John like he's been punched, leaving him breathless and chilled to the core and vulnerable. All he can think of is _Alan_. Alan, whom they lost contact with. Alan, who was on his own. Alan, who John insisted would be all right.

Alan, who might be in life-threatening danger.

In one moment of weakness, John's walls crumble and he's caught off guard, arms lowering as terrible scenarios that all end in Alan's death bombard his mind's eye. "What have you—"

Orson strikes like a cobra, faster than a man his size should be able to move. John tries to dodge, but with a wall at his back and a desk at his side, there's nowhere to go. He raises clenched fists, ready to fight for Alan's sake, but his injured right arm is slower than normal, weakened by blood loss. His block is deflected and a heavy hand loops around his wrist.

For a moment, they both freeze, eyes meeting over their crossed arms. There's no humor in Orson's expression, no sick enjoyment of this. John's heart dives; smoldering beneath the anger in Orson's eyes is a merciless grief, one John recognizes because he's seen it in Virgil's eyes. He's seen it in the mirror.

Then Orson twists his hand, digging fingers deep into exposed flesh, and although John is strong and well-trained, he's unbalanced by the flaring pain and—worse—the terrible fear that something's happened to Alan. It's easier than it should be for Orson to spin him around so he can grab his other arm too.

"You are going to regret ever coming here," he hisses, using his mass to pin John against the wall, bending his uninjured arm up behind his back. John writhes, abandoning every scrap of training in his frantic desire to escape, but a surprisingly smooth hand cups the back of his neck, startling him into stillness.

 _What the hell is he_ —

Rational thought dissolves as Orson tears his arm backward with too much force. John's back arches, straining against the hand holding his neck in place with bruising force as the pressure in his shoulder builds to unbearable. "S-stop," John begs, but Orson continues to pull as though he's trying to rip his arm from its socket.

Which, apparently, he is.

Ligaments and muscles tear as the bone dislocates with a sickening _crunch_. John jams his tongue against the back of his teeth to stop a scream from escaping. His breathing stutters, rattling to a halt before redoubling into wild gasps through his nose as the muscles in his shoulder spasm.

He fights the debilitating agony, forcing himself to stay upright as Orson drags him toward the office doorway. Dark spots cram his vision, and he has no idea how he stays on his feet. Bile scorches a nasty trail up the back of his throat as his displaced arm is shifted.

He's only semi-aware as he's forced out of the office and onto the mezzanine—a place he'd rather be a million miles away from. Or at least twenty-two thousand four hundred miles.

Orson jolts him again, and nausea rocks through him, but he doesn't give him the satisfaction of crying out. He bites his tongue until it bleeds as he waits for his breathing to stabilize enough to ask, "What... have you d-done to him?"

His only answer is a kick to the back of his knee. He drops hard.

* * *

" _Scott Tracy_... _comm_... _fzzp_ —"

Scott tenses as a forceful flash of noise with a hint of EOS zaps into his ear and out again. Virgil's hand is instantly at his own head, rubbing his temple, though he stays silent.

They're heading toward the office complex Alan was last sent to. Half of Scott's mind is focused on reaching their youngest brother, while the other half is trying to trace what path John's taking into the school grounds. Eddying alarm is hidden behind a mask of confidence at having successfully finished combating a fire.

One fire, anyway.

But the image of John disappearing into that school hangs over Scott too, an equally heavy weight as losing contact with his youngest two brothers. Both situations fray his nerves and make him agitated, but he doesn't confide in Virgil like he normally would. Not here, not about how he's desperate for history to break its trend and forgo repeating itself.

Scott's not sure when they last brought up the kids they lost. In fact, he's not sure they ever brought it up. He had—has—thought about it countless times, but he let his anger rot away in silence until it dissolved with the memories.

Then EOS fed the data to Dad's desk this morning, and every memory returned, sharp and clear and cutting as diamond.

Even thinking about it makes him flinch. It's become something that happened but never acknowledged, too painful to discuss. Just like now—they skirt the topic as usual, neither commenting on how this all feels, and Scott's fine with that. Mostly because every sense he possesses informs him that Virgil is hovering on the edge of a dangerous precipice of emotion, and the last thing he wants to do is push him off it. To talk about what they lost, what they _might_ lose, even to send Virgil back into the school—Scott can't risk it. One step too far and they might not recover him like they did last time.

That's why Scott would rather not talk about it—because of Virgil, not himself. He'd talk about it if they wanted him to. Of course he would.

" _The system has co-co_... _c-c-c_... _copzz_ —"

Scott doesn't have to say or do anything—Virgil stops next to him, and they stand together, waiting to see if EOS can break through this time.

"Damn thing," Scott mutters, then raises his voice. "International Rescue, can any of you hear me?"

"It's no use, Scott." The words come from his brother's mouth, but the voice is a stranger's.

"Virg," he starts, and then hesitates. Virgil's skin is waxy, translucent like someone suffering catastrophic blood loss, and just like last year, Scott doesn't know what to say to restore life to his brother. It's made harder by the way Virgil's closing himself off; whether it's intentional or reflexive, Scott can't tell.

He's distracted by the crackle in his ear as it suddenly dips into nothing. He shakes his head—he's gotten so used to having a steady fizz hovering in the background that the absence of sound is unnerving.

Then EOS's voice slashes through the ringing silence. She doesn't sound calm at all, her voice edged with panic that shouldn't belong to a machine. " _Scott Tracy_ , _are you hearing me now_?"

Scott flashes Virgil a smile and receives what might be the hint of one in return. "Yes, EOS, _finally_. Do you know what—"

" _John requires urgent assistance_."

Scott's mouth snaps shut so fast he almost bites off the tip of his tongue. It takes a moment to process what she said, but when he does, his hand shoots out to grasp Virgil's forearm, fingers tightening with the rest of his muscles. "What do you mean?" he barks. "What sort of assistance? Is he all right?"

" _No_ ," comes the answer, sending an electric terror through his entire body. Not because he thinks John can't handle himself—he can, and Scott trusts him—but because of this damn place and what happened last time. " _Contact unavailable_. _I am reading his suit statistics_ , _and John_ _'s vitals are erratic_. _It appears that he is injured_."

"It appears—" Scott's words lump in his throat. "Where is he?"

" _The gymnasium in the decommissioned area of the school grounds_. _I can provide you with a layout if you require_ —"

"No need," Scott says, and wow, does it come out bitter. There's a pillar of fire winding up his spine, and he's quick to turn to Virgil for a distraction. He finds one.

"The _gym_?" Virgil's tortured expression tears deep into Scott's heart. Virgil yanks away from his grasp, brings a trembling hand up to rub his mouth. "I should have... should have known this would happen. I did know—I knew we should never have come back here. It's this place, Scott. Everything feels wrong, this is _wrong_ —"

"Virg," Scott snaps, grabbing him by the shoulders and twisting him so they're face to face. This isn't the time for Virgil to decide he wants to swan dive into irrationality. He rests one hand on the side of Virgil's neck, taps his thumb against the edge of his jaw. "Did you hear that? John's _hurt_. We need to focus and get to him—you especially if he's injured."

Virgil holds Scott's gaze with eyes too bright and too soft. Mirrored within them is the same fevered panic clawing at Scott's mind, and he drops his mask for one moment—all he can spare before his control slips away—so Virgil can see he isn't alone. _I know_ , _Virg_.

Liquid gold solidifies into something approaching stable as Virgil nods. "You're right... of course, yes, let's go—" He stops and looks around, movements turning frenetic. "Shit—no, _no_!"

"What?" Scott's stomach knots. " _What_?"

"I left my medkit somewhere—probably the last building."

He groans and shoves a hand through his hair. "Okay, go find it—and hurry. I'll meet you at the school." As much as he doesn't want to split up, especially from Virgil, there isn't really an option here.

Virgil's head jerks in an abrupt nod, and he shoots Scott an apologetic glance before he jogs away.

Only the thought-consuming understanding that John is injured gives Scott the strength to move toward the school on his own. It's with a heavy heart he opens comms, rather than the relief he was expecting. "Three and Four, come in."

Gordon's laidback, " _Took your time_ ," is drowned out by Alan's borderline-hysterical cry of, " _Scott_!"

He stumbles but forces himself to keep moving. _No_ , _not Alan too_ , he begs. "I'm here," he says, trying to keep his voice level.

"Scott, finally—you and Virg, I think you're targets or something. I might be too, but they're after you—maybe. I'm pretty sure they set up the explosions and—this isn't a coincidence, I _know_ it isn't—"

Scott holds up his hand as though Alan's physically in front of him and it'll be enough to stop the torrent of words. "Al! Slow down—what on Earth are you talking about?"

There's a labored gasp on the other end, but when Alan speaks again, he sounds calmer. "I heard people talking about how they were looking for the dark-haired member of IR. I think it's you, but it could be Virg— _please_ , Scott, I know it sounds crazy, but it's what I heard."

Scott's knees suddenly feel weak.

John's still offline and injured, in the one part of the school none of them should ever have been subjected to again. Scott let him go, against every instinct he's ever possessed. Now Alan's telling him International Rescue might be targets. That he or Virgil—

 _Virgil_. Sent back alone only a minute ago...

Scott curses the wind and lashes out at nothing.

What if they were targets right from the start? Has he walked his brothers into a trap?

"Scott—you there?" Alan's trembling voice brings him back to the fact they're still in the danger zone and his brothers look to him to command. "What... what do we do?"

Scott sighs, pushing his hair back from his face as he runs through Alan's information again, only for his gut to lurch as his brain snags on a series of words previously overlooked. "Wait, Alan. What did you mean, _you_ might be a target?"

There's a hesitation that jangles deep against Scott's brotherly instincts. " _Alan_."

"I... uh, it's probably nothing, but I thought I heard them say something about finding the youngest? But I don't _know_! It sounds insane, but I think it all has to be a setup—"

He's heard enough. "It's not crazy, Alan. In fact, you're probably right." Even though part of him wants to spare his younger brothers from the gravity of the situation, they need to know what's going on, so he swiftly brings them up to speed. The understanding that they're all in danger grates against his mind, and he prays John hasn't paid too dearly for his negligence.

"Virg and I are going to head for the school," he decides, even though he's over halfway there already. "We'll find John and then we'll all get out of here. The firefighters can finish cleaning up these fires—we need to leave. Alan, I want you to return to _Two_ right now."

"What? But, no, I—"

"Listen to him, Al!" Gordon, who has been unnervingly quiet up until now, finally speaks with a clipped cadence that reminds Scott of snapped-off salutes. "This is serious."

"I know it's serious, that's why I want to help—"

"Gordon's right. Get to safety. That's an _order_ ," Scott growls, pushing every bit of military training into his words. He's satisfied with the faint _FAB_ on the other end. "Gordon, you too."

Gordon's reaction is expected but no less frustrating. "No way in hell, Scott! I'm closest to the school, it's right below me—"

"Gordon, no." It's futile, Scott knows, but his first line of duty is always to protect his brothers. "Go with Alan, that's an—."

"Yeah, and it's one I'm defying." It's the way Gordon sounds like John that throws Scott off guard. "I can handle myself. You know I can. If John's in trouble, I need to be there."

Scott can't argue with that, nor does he have the time or focus required. Instead, he grinds his teeth and relinquishes control. At least it's to Gordon. "Fine. _Fine_. Call in the second you get to him. Virg? I'm on the property now."

"But, Scott, I'm only a minute behind, don't you think you should wait for—"

"No." Scott's done arguing. He pushes himself into a sprint, concern for John thrumming hot through his blood.

* * *

John has been reduced to his knees only four times in his life. The first was when he was a child and decided to see what it felt like to pray. He wasn't sure to whom—maybe his mother or perhaps just to the stars.

The second time was when Scott called him to announce that Gordon was in surgery and he wasn't expected to pull through. Middle of his apartment, he sank to his knees and wondered if praying for someone before they were gone would yield a different result.

The third time was a year ago to this very week. High above the world, alone, he knelt on the cold glass of the gravity ring and spun around the heart of his space station until the red light blinking in front of his eyes faded into nothing.

The fourth time...

"My people are picking up the boy now," Orson growls, "so don't try anything. They're just a radio call away, and since the deaths of _those kids_ don't mean anything to you, I suppose the understanding that you're responsible for the death of your teammate will have to do."

The fourth time is now: once-polished concrete under his knees, a knife scraping flakes of skin off his throat, and threats against Alan's life ricocheting through his mind.

John tastes blood. The copper tang seeps between his teeth, sharp and rousing. He blinks hard, forces eyes blurry with moisture to focus. They're about halfway down the mezzanine, angled toward the doorway John first entered through, a tantalizingly close escape. The glass railing—and, twenty feet straight down, the gym floor—is less than a yard from his right elbow, but he can't bring himself to look.

Orson's hand rests on the curve where John's neck meets his shoulder, such an easy target. John wants to fight back, and he's seriously tempted to, because he knows how, but he can't risk Alan's safety. Not when he isn't sure if he has the stamina to incapacitate Orson. Usually he's capable of ignoring most pain, but this is on a different level, a hostile burn that demands his attention when he has none to give.

"Don't touch him," is all he says, using precious strength to modulate his voice as close to neutral as possible, because he isn't just good at knowing what kids need. If he lets his aggression take charge, like it so desperately wants to, Orson is going to feel threatened. Words can so easily fuel rage or, alternately, douse it, so John has to be careful. He is fortunate the word game is what he's best at—if he can stay focused. Or _conscious_.

"I won't," comes the harsh reply, fingers digging into muscles that spasm involuntarily, scattering a light dusting of charcoal dots in front of John's eyes. "Not yet. I'd rather you all see."

"All see what?" John's heart is pounding, but he feels it strongest in his shoulder, not chest.

"The others should be en route by now, don't you think?"

Of course. He enabled comms again. EOS knows what's going on—she's probably listening to every word. So John plays dumb. "Sir, I don't know what you—"

The doors John's facing slam open, and what he sees is worse than the pain in his shoulder. He would suffer having his arm ripped off a thousand times if it meant Gordon didn't have to jerk to a stop with an expression of unadulterated shock plastered across his face.

" _John_? Whoa—" He looks between them both, amber eyes wide with a brief flash of innocence that's immediately corrupted by what's before him. "What the hell is going on? Get away from him!"

There's a sharp breath from above John. His first thought is that Orson wasn't expecting anyone to arrive so soon, but that doesn't make sense. Something else causes that reaction, but John doesn't have enough information to figure out what.

Gordon darts forward as his hand flies to his sash. "Scott, I need backup _now_ —"

"I wouldn't if I were you," Orson snarls. Cool steel caresses John's neck, then flashes hot as it parts skin, and John succumbs to a moment of gut-wrenching fear—his life is over and he isn't ready, _he isn_ _'t ready_ —before he's able to narrow the source of the pain down to halfway between his windpipe and carotid. Not fatal. Not yet.

"No, stop, _stop_ —" Gordon holds up both hands before freezing. There's a glint of panic in his eyes when he seeks out John's gaze, but beneath that hovers a dark, heavy question. _Fight him together_?

The fact that Gordon trusts his judgment enough to ask restores a sliver of confidence, but he has to shake his head in the minutest of motions. Terror desperately wants to escape now that he's in the presence of a brother, but John holds strong, words stable despite his gashed throat. "He's got Alan. Don't do anything."

"No!" Gordon lurches forward a step, brows pinching in the middle. "But we were just talking—"

Agony tears through John's shoulder as Orson yanks it backward. This time, John can't help crying out, clenching his eyes shut, or maybe that's just the world darkening before him.

 _Now would be a really good time to wake up_...

When he blinks himself back to full awareness, it's to find the dark knife weaving like a living shadow in front of his face as Orson gestures toward Gordon. "Don't try anything, boy, stay back. I'm not afraid to hurt this one too."

The color leeches from under Gordon's tan, graying him out to a shade John's only seen lying on a hospital bed. It's a reversion back to a state where he was neither with them nor gone, which is rather how John's feeling now. At least this time Gordon hasn't lost his tongue. "But... who... what do you want?"

"Answers. Or revenge. Take your pick."

John exhales the trembling in his chest so his voice is calm when he speaks, hoping it will throw Orson off. By the expression on Gordon's face, it works on him. "Sir—if you want to talk about what happened last year, I am willing. Just know our youngest operative had nothing to do with what happened here—"

" 'What happened here'?" The reply is quick and fork-tongued. "So you admit that something happened?"

John's voice slips into a whisper. "Of course."

"Are you talking about those kids?" Gordon is quick to catch up, like always, and his irate words are loud in John's skull. He lifts tired eyes to find Gordon's fists are as dangerously clenched as his jaw. "Is that what this is about? Then you shouldn't be hurting _them_ —if anything, it should be me—"

"Stop," is all John can grind out, swallowing against his raw throat. Gordon looks at him, imploring for more, for a plan. But John can only say stop. _Stop talking_ , _leave this to me_ , _I can handle it_. _Stop blaming yourself_.

Gordon does stop, but not because of John. There's a clang of opening doors, followed by heavy, rapid footsteps.

Stomach-turning pain flares as John's yanked sideways. There's a repulsive jolt through his entire body, and he slumps forward, heavy and hazy as the rest of the world retreats to loiter on the edge of his consciousness.

There are words, muffled and angry, lots of shouting. Something in him wants to call out, impress upon them that Orson doesn't need shouting—they'll only encounter further resistance.

"—can't do anything. If you attempt to stop me or call the rest of the authorities, your youngest one is _dead_."

It's the voice above him, crackling with rage-powered anguish, that snaps John to full awareness. The knife's back at his throat and he's still on his knees, but now he's not looking at escape—he's face-to-pane with a wall of glass. Standing on the court below, with a thick crack bisecting him on the angle, is Scott.

Distance makes him appear small and helpless, but his eyes are hard, chips of diamond, and his face is unreadable. "You're bluffing, we just spoke to him."

"Doesn't mean we don't have eyes on him."

"Who's _we_?" Scott's flatness cracks, exposing the roiling emotions beneath. "The people that set those buildings on fire? Was this all just a front to get us back here?"

"Do you not even remember me?" Orson says. "Or was this just another black mark in International Rescue's book?"

" _Mills_." Scott's reply is harsh. "Orson Mills."

John's not sure whether Scott actually remembers his name or if EOS filled him in on the way over. He supposes it isn't relevant.

"How could I forget? You lost your son," Scott continues, but there's no empathy in his words, no understanding. "I still don't see what that has to do with my—our operatives."

"You don't—don't understand?"

Scott lifts his head and meets what John assumes is Orson's stare. "No, I don't. If you want to talk, let's talk, but you let both my men go and we'll do this civilly."

Mindful of the knife, John nods his approval of Scott's words. Then, and John isn't sure why he's surprised, Scott goes and ruins it.

"But if I'm honest, there's not much we can say. It was an unfortunate loss for _everyone_. Whatever you want with International Rescue, it's not going to bring those kids back—"

" _Those kids_?" Orson spits, leaning forward to rest more weight on John's shoulder. He bites his tongue and tries to twist away, but a dislocated shoulder and what is turning into a concerning amount of blood slicking down his sleeve and side leave the attempt futile. "Is that all they were to you? Just some _kids_? This is why you can't be trusted—it's just a job to you, there's no human element—"

"When you're rescuing humans, of course there's a human element," Scott says, voice rising as he takes a step forward. "We did the best that the situation allowed us!"

"The _situation_?" Orson barks out a low note of humorless laughter and jams the flat of the blade into John's windpipe. The back of his head collides with Orson's leg. "You're going to blame it on circumstances that you failed to rescue my _child_? Other people's children?"

In the back of his fragmented awareness, John hears the approach of a familiar, cautious set of footsteps. _Virgil_. He longs to turn his head and offer Virgil every bit of reassurance he can muster, but the edge of the blade is already biting through skin, so he doesn't dare. Not when Scott and Orson are locked into what they think is a battle of equals. They're not, though, because Scott's twenty feet below, and John learned the hard way, long ago, that Scott doesn't play nice when he's at any sort of disadvantage.

"Just... what do you want?" Scott finally growls, eyes flickering to John and then up to Orson again. "What would make you let them go?"

"I told you!" The wrathful energy radiating off Orson makes John tremble. "I want you to tell me why my son had to die—how you failed so catastrophically at your jobs. Then I want closure, I want you to feel how I feel every single—"

"Closure?" Scott's snort bounces off the high ceiling and doubles back on everyone. "How? By setting buildings alight just so you could get us here? How is that going to bring you closure? How is hurting my men going to satisfy you?"

"This city deserves it! They all forgot about them. They just kept moving on without us. Rebuilding, ignoring, not acknowledging the mistakes they made! Just how you've forgotten them, made them redundant, just another scratch on your record. But—but now you and this city might understand how I felt, how I feel every single day—"

"That's ridiculous—you're just causing more pain!"

Orson growls. In a dizzying blur of pain and motion, John finds himself shoved forward, so close to the glass that he can see the scratches from when it was last buffed. Then Orson grabs a fistful of hair and yanks his head back, baring his throat. _So it_ _'s easier to cut through_ , John knows.

"No!" Scott yells at the same time there's an undefinable shout from Gordon.

"Stop! _Please_."

John closes his eyes against the rawness of his brother's voice. It's Virgil who resorts to begging, and it's Virgil who reminds John of the emotional effect this had on all of them. It's Virgil's sheer presence that forces John to realize he _does_ understand Orson.

He also understands that Scott isn't listening to him. Not to what he's _really_ saying, certainly not to what John's hearing. John hears a father in distress, a father who was pushed aside during a rebuild, a father who is missing his child.

Even with a knife pressed to his throat, John can't bring himself to be mad. With every word from Orson—each filled with sorrow that's hidden behind a wall of indignation and fury—John's anger subsides as he yanks his own walls down, allows himself to empathize more. It's too easy to understand his grief.

John needs to take control if they are going to get anywhere, so he sends Scott a glare that, if it doesn't silence armies, at least hopefully it'll silence his older brother. "Orson," he says, refusing to let his voice shake as the knife rubs his skin. "One of these boys—Kaleb, Reed, Jeremiah, Dan—he was your son, wasn't he?"

Orson stills into what is the longest pause John's ever experienced. Then his strong fingers release John's hair, letting his head drop forward. The knife follows his movements without relenting its pressure. "My... yes. Reed. My boy. But—but you don't have the right to say his name—"

"I know, you're right, I don't," John agrees. He can see the agitation rising in Scott, like a pot about to boil over, and all he can do is hope Scott will keep a lid his temper. Right now, Orson's the one who deserves his full attention. "I don't have the right to feel grief about what happened to him either, but I do. A year on and I still think about your son. We all do, we haven't forgotten—"

"Yes, you have." Now Orson's the one who isn't listening. John isn't surprised—Orson's had a year to form his own opinions about them, to let his grief and anger fester and influence him, so it's no wonder he doesn't want that illusion broken. "He was nothing to you, _nothing_ , otherwise you would have tried harder!"

John can't fight him. As much as he wants to, he can't, especially since Orson's partly right. For Alan, John will admit his mistakes, even though they taste like dusty chalk on the back of his tongue. "I should have tried harder, you're right. They deserved more from all of us, from... from me. But our youngest wasn't there—here. He doesn't deserve to be a part of this—"

"Neither does he," Scott calls, never able to stay silent for long. "Trust me, you don't want this to end in more blood—"

"Why should I trust you?" Orson's knee bumps John's arm, wrenching his breath away in an explosion of fiery crimson. "Don't tell me what I want! You don't know what it's like."

"But I... I do, Orson." Panting, John shoots Scott what he hopes is his fiercest glare. Probably it's just frustrated. _Shut up_. "Not as a father, no, but as someone responsible."

The knife slips, gouging before it retreats. John hardly notices; the damage to his shoulder is approaching whiteout intensity. He can't tell if Orson's voice is anguished or outraged when he says, " _What_?"

"I made a mistake," John says, meeting Scott's eyes through the crack in the glass. "My scans didn't spot them early enough. The only way I knew they were there was because of your son. He was smart enough to call, even when he was terrified—"

"He... what?"

The knife vanishes, and John's given no warning before he's spun around again. Bile collides with the back of his throat, acidic and wretched, leaving him too busy gulping it back to focus on his now-visible younger brothers, still hovering in the doorway he entered via what feels like hours ago.

Orson grabs his chin, forces his head up so they're looking at one another. "What are you talking about? Reed called?"

"Yes, he did." John lifts his blood-soaked right arm with the intention of nudging Orson's hand away from his jaw, but it's sluggish, weak, and flops back at his side. "I talked to him just before the aftershock hit..." Now there's no way to stop the emotions he's been repressing for a year. Normally he's good at organizing how he feels into small, lockable boxes, but now the key fits all. Tremors infiltrate his words. "He was so brave, said h-he'd look after his friends, and even told me about that—that game he was going to be playing—"

"Oh." Orson blinks in the slow manner of someone remembering. A dreamy quality overlays his words. "He was so excited for that. Called it the game of the season..."

"That's why they were in the gym—here," John explains, remembering the voice mingling excitement with terror as though a recording of the call is playing over the PA system. He swallows, then swallows again, wishing for water to ease the ache pinching the back of his throat. This is the hardest thing he's had to say in a long time. "Orson, I... I'm sorry. If I could go back to that day, I would in an instant, I swear."

The reply is a fragile whisper. "So would I."

John nods his support. "I'll tell you now, though, revenge isn't going to make this grief disappear. It will only amplify it, make you hunger for more. Talking about it, though—that will help. I want to talk with you—will you let me do that?"

"I..." Orson's fingers tap the knife's hilt. He slowly exhales, leaving them all hanging in a moment of excruciating silence. John opens his mouth to say something more, to solidify his brother's safety.

A door crashes open. Not the door to the mezzanine or the one below them that Scott entered through—this one's on the opposite side of the gym.

John twists and in a brief second of confusion sees _Alan_. Free, unfollowed, running in by his own volition. _Orson_ _'s people never had him_.

" _What_?" Orson yells.

The calm that John has been trying to cultivate, the moment of understanding, it's all lost as everything turns to chaos. Virgil's footsteps charge toward them, paralleling a fierce yell from Gordon as he too realizes they've been played. From the corner of his eye, John watches Scott's head swivel in Alan's direction, and then Orson's hands collide with John's shoulders.

John doesn't get the chance to fight back. He isn't at the point where he _wants_ to fight back, drowning in a pool of sorrow, of regret.

There's a tortured yell from Orson, and John catches a glimpse of fierce hatred in his gray eyes before he falls backward into glass.

A warped screech fills John's head as the cracked panel behind him shatters. Shards the size and luster of cut diamonds fall around him, and John is no longer up above or down below—he's in between, caught in a weightless bubble where time doesn't exist and surrounded by shimmering glass that reminds him of his beloved stars.

Maybe this _is_ just a nightmare. He's dreamed of falling before—falling through space and falling through time, sometimes alone, sometimes with his brothers, but he counts it a mercy that he always wakes up before he suffers the impact of landing.

Blue eyes as wide as the expanse of the ocean catch his own, swallow him whole, and the threads binding him to timelessness snap. John slams into the gym floor with the force of a meteorite. Bones in his shoulder grind together, his organs seem to collide with the front of his body, and then it's all washed out by the exquisite pain of something jagged scraping his ribs and igniting his lungs on fire.

So. Not a nightmare, which is rather a pity. Hitting the ground hurts more than he expected.


	4. Anger on the Front Lines

At the end of every rescue, when thoughts of _home_ were just beginning to surface, Scott allowed himself a moment of reprieve. It took any number of forms: an exhale, a pause, a shared glance between brothers—each bound together in their similarity only by the way they were filled with relief that lifted all pressure from his shoulders, even if only for a few seconds.

It was supposed to have happened by now. Relief that the rescue was almost over, that he and his brothers were okay, that they managed to pull every child—injured but alive—from the cages of ruin. Perhaps there would be a hint of fulfillment mixed in, maybe a glimmer of pride for what they achieved. There shouldn't have been anger or heartache.

But walls cracked, ground trembled, and rubble fell on unsuspecting innocence. From then on, it was a given that Scott wouldn't earn his moment.

Especially not here. He stood in the doorway to an office—the vice principle's, he thought—blocked off from any sight of the destruction but filled with an anxious energy that decided to infect him too. It was where the parents were supposed to wait for International Rescue to do their job.

With arms folded tight across his chest to match a set jaw, Scott watched as children fell into the open arms of their parents. Their faces lit up when they saw each other despite the tears glistening in their eyes. Scott had rescued them all without a hitch in his stride. He should be happy right now for the lives he saved. But the warmth in the room, generated by anxious bodies, didn't register any deeper than his skin.

Scott couldn't focus on their relief.

Not when there was a small group of parents standing in the corner, tucked up against the mahogany desk. There were seven of them, shepherded together by a policeman, but they stood out from the rest. Surrounded by people but achingly alone, lost and empty, with wandering gazes the rest of the room's occupants tried to avoid.

They waited for an answer to a question that would never be forgotten.

Scott had to give them that answer. He would enter their individual worlds for a fleeting second, and from there his face would be imprinted on the worst day of these people's lives.

Acid bubbled in his chest as he looked between the two sets of parents. He doubted an onlooker would have noticed, but Scott saw the invisible line in the room with painful clarity. It was a division between the whole and the soon to be broken, between those that would laud International Rescue as heroes and those who forever be failed by them.

The word _failure_ sizzled on Scott's tongue, vitriolic, corroding its way up into his mind. He jammed his fingers through his hair, knocking loose dust and chips of drywall. There was nothing to be done about the tears in his uniform. After a strenuous moment of watching false hope play out on the parents' faces, he activated his comm, words gravelly in his throat. "John, has Gordon confirmed?"

John answered quickly—well, Scott assumed that was John. The voice on the other end sounded nothing like his brother; it came from something brittle, shaky, filled with words that would shatter if Scott ever got a chance to hold them. " _Yes_... _Gordon just scanned the area and_... _he_... _I_..." There was an audible exhale, and then the fragility vanished. John sounded more like John but less like a human, his words lowering the temperature in Scott's body. " _They_ _'re dead_."

Two words, along with John's unnatural bluntness, looped a coarse noose around Scott's throat.

He had been on the ground. Even as an experienced rescuer, he knew how rough that last aftershock was. But there was nothing like hearing the word _dead_ in reference to children they were charged with saving. The chill brought on by John's words rushed out of Scott, replaced by a burning rage as vicious as a cancer threatening to eat its host.

 _How could John miss six children_?

 _No_. Scott flexed his fingers. How could _all_ of them miss that? It shouldn't have been possible, not with their technology. Irreverent relief leaked into his bloodstream that it wasn't Virgil or Gordon as it might well have been.

Scott locked his molars together. What did those parents care that his brothers survived? What did it mean to them? Nothing, not one bit. His worst nightmare was about to be inflicted on other people and he had the _nerve_ to think about himself.

Scott's festering irritation was not easily hidden, no matter how hard he tried. "All right, John." It came out harsh to his own ears, probably harsher to his brother's. "I'll inform the officer in charge, and then I'll talk to the parents—"

"You don't have to do that." It was the way John sounded so robotic that sent Scott's rage spiraling. Whatever detachment game he was playing this time, it had gone too far. There was no trace of warmth or life in his tone, nothing that resembled _John_.

"Oh, but I _do_ , John," Scott replied, words dropping off his tongue to contort into something terrible and mocking. " _I_ always do. They deserve that much. So you just keep an eye on Virgil. Get him and the rest of those kids out. _Alive_."

There was a significant pause before John's voice, barely a whisper in his ear, returned to its fragmented state. "I... they... FAB."

Scott snapped the connection shut and blocked all thoughts of his brothers from his mind. These people deserved his full attention—a level of focus he should have given their children if he had been allowed the chance.

With purpose in his stride, Scott walked over the invisible line and crossed into the territory of sorrow. He gestured the officer toward him. A brief word in his ear was all he needed; the outcome was dreaded but expected by all emergency personnel.

"Tragic," the man offered, not insincerely. Scott didn't begrudge the moment of relief that crossed the officer's face when he declined the man's offer to tell the parents. It was a job they all hated. To Scott, it was more than just a job—it was a reminder of the consequences. The real, _human_ consequences lying behind every choice they made.

So the officer walked away and Scott stepped into his place, the new focus of seven pairs of eyes. It struck him then that perhaps these people were lucky they were at least here. Other parents, those stuck in traffic, cut off without phone lines, ones who might not even know what was going on—surely they were worse off.

But what would these parents care of others' sorrow? Scott had to keep reminding himself this was individual grief, nothing he should generalize, even if that came far too easily for him. John once called generalizing Scott's coping mechanism. The words cut deep enough that he never forgot them.

Scott stood firm before them, legs planted straight under squared off shoulders. Stable. "I'm the leader of International Rescue. We were called here today to attend this situation—"

Maybe there was something written in his expression, or it might have been the silent understanding that hung in the air, but before Scott could say more, a lady with chestnut curls burst into tears. She opened her heart with a body-wracking moan before turning to her partner and disappearing into his shoulder. "I can't do this."

Her partner offered no comfort; he just stared at Scott, begging for an answer with resolve in his gaze. Scott's words died on his tongue. Whatever it was pulsing through his veins was making him increasingly aware of the present. These were separate people with separate lives, separate homes to go back to. One man didn't look old enough to be a father, one woman had earrings in the shape of watermelon slices, another looked as though she had just come from a business meeting.

Individual people, but they all had one common factor. They'd bee plucked from their everyday lives, never to return to them again. How was Scott supposed to tell them that?

He exhaled and relaxed his stance, meeting them all with a more genuine gaze. "Before the last aftershock, we were only just notified of your children's presence in the school. We did everything..." Scott's wording faltered. _Or would have done everything had we been there_. "Everything we could to try and get them out, but we were unable to—"

Chestnut curls started to wail into a tremoring shoulder; this time, tears filled her partner's eyes too. Scott didn't want to match any of their gazes, but it was cowardice not to, so his eyes met those of cool gray. He cleared his throat. "We were unable to get to them before the aftershock. The impact of the collapsing gym was fatal for all. I and all of International Rescue are... _deeply_ sorry for your loss. If you wish to speak—"

He had to stop, because no one was listening anymore. He wasn't sure how long he could suffer through spouting the same old lines either.

Someone was sinking to their knees, barely held by another's supportive arm. The lady with fruit earrings clasped her hands to her chest, mouth falling open in a silent scream. Or perhaps it was a prayer. The only man that Scott found he could stare at had an expression that was suddenly all too familiar.

Gray eyes stood alone, arms folded tightly across his chest, hair pulled back into a bun that only accentuated his new expression of quiet anguish.

It threw Scott back in time, to another universe where he and his father were once sitting across from a surgeon and told that Gordon wouldn't last the night. Scott had been the loud griever, the angry griever, the denier. But on this man's face now was the same manifestation of repressed agony that had once pushed and shoved its way to the forefront of Dad's.

It wasn't a noisy anguish but something subdued. It was, in its simplest form, a father's grief. One Scott hoped to never understand.

He tore his eyes away and took a step back, unwilling to intrude any longer in other people's heartache.

It took far longer for him to get that expression out of his mind. Stepping away from the grief didn't solve anything; it was still there, looming in the background. Scott waited for news of Gordon and Virgil, and thought of Alan back home, but nothing would rid him of the memory of that man and every line of grief etched into his expression.

Scott thought his face would be imprinted on their minds, but never did he expected he'd have cause to remember theirs.

* * *

When he was little, Scott was afraid of falling.

Sometimes he'd dream of toppling off a cliff and wake with a sudden start just before hitting the ground. Then little brothers started having nightmares too and Scott didn't have time for his own. It was childish for him to have fears anyway, so he fought them every single day. He learned how to fly—in more ways than one—and slowly but surely, heights were no longer something to dread.

Occasionally, Scott still has that same dream, still wakes up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. So _something_ still scares him, wandering in his subconscious with the rest of the things he tells himself he's no longer afraid of.

It is only now, watching his brother plummet twenty feet to what could be his death, that he realizes it's not himself falling that frightens him.

" _John_!" Scott's yell is a roar of the beast he's been holding back for his brother's sake. Now that the forced civility has shattered alongside the glass, it unleashed itself and fills every last inch of his skin.

Scott's feet slam against the springy gym floor, propelling him forward with speed an Olympic runner would envy. It's no use—he's stuck, too distanced to be of use. The time it takes him to shout John's name is the time it takes for John to hit the ground.

There's a hollow crack as John's back arches on impact before it falls flat, followed by a sharp intake of breath that never expels. An enraged yell from Gordon ricochets off the walls of the gym, and Scott's attention flickers up to see him and Virgil leaping toward Mills.

An oddly peaceful sound follows, reminiscent of wind chimes, as twinkling shards of glass fall around John. Scott is, rather inappropriately, reminded of a snow globe.

The most resounding noise is the lack of one. No one is yelling. John is torpid, noiseless, and Scott is suddenly blind and deaf to all else.

An asphyxiating terror grabs him with icy fingers around his throat, restricting any form of calm breathing. He reaches John's side and skids to his knees. Bits of glass like scattered diamonds try to cut through his uniform, but he ignores the discomfort, because the diamonds are turning to rubies, stained red by blood seeping from... from _somewhere_. Scott is numb to all but his brother's pain. "John?"

John's eyes are open. As transparent as the glittering bed he's lying on, green-gray irises surround dilated pupils that are staring at something Scott can't see. All color has drained from his face, lips moving in a silent expression of agony.

Scott's heart aches. "Hey, John, no, don't try to talk, it's all ri—"

He recoils, swallowing hard to keep the revolting contents of his stomach where they belong. Horror shivers through him like a sudden gust from an unknown sea, and he finds himself helpless once more. As helpless as he was moments ago. As helpless as he has been all day.

John's chest is rising and falling sharply, and with each ragged breath that rasps horribly around the edges, the shard of glass protruding from the front of his chest moves. It's cut straight through his body, as sharp as any blade. Around its jagged edges pools a vicious stain across his uniform. The blood is spreading, and it's spreading fast, just like the fire moved between buildings.

"Virgil! _Virg_!" Scott's yell is no less desperate or fierce than before, and he cranes his head up. Virgil. He needs Virgil. John needs Virgil. "Get down here now!"

It's a high, tight angle from where Scott's kneeling to the mezzanine, but John landed far enough away that Scott's able to see the way Virgil's head snaps toward him and he relinquishes his hold on Mills's arm to Gordon. For a moment, Scott catches Mills's gaze, and the anger and hate that surge through him are paralyzing forces, threatening to steal every ounce of his energy.

But he can't afford anger or hate, so for John's sake he looks away, makes himself find Virgil. The eyes that stare back don't look like Virgil's. They're hollow, dull, the same eyes he was subjected to a year ago.

They don't have time for this.

"Virgil, _now_!" Scott doesn't care that his brother flinches, because there's a flicker of gold.

Gordon's still clutching Mills, pulling his arms tight behind his back. "Go, Virg—I've got this."

Virgil doesn't stop to make sure. "Pressure, Scott," he barks, and without another word—at least not one Scott can hear—he vanishes beyond sight.

Scott's hands tremble like they never should while in the danger zone as they find their way to his brother's palpitating chest. He swallows against a desert throat, careful not to actually touch the glass or shift it in any way as he presses down, but John's breathing still lurches.

"W-what... is..." His words are ragged and strained, each one a torment to Scott's ears. Blood bubbles onto his lips. "Is it... b-bad?"

"No, hey, _hey_ , it's okay," Scott snaps with more force than intended. Whatever shock John is in right now is vital to keeping him from panicking. If he learns the severity...

He shoves the thought aside. "Just keep looking at me, John, all right? You're fine. Don't take your eyes off me."

John's eyes narrow a fraction. His chest heaves; Scott feels his uneven breath catch beneath his hands. There's a shout from above them, and John does exactly what Scott doesn't want him to: he looks upward.

Scott follows his line of sight to see Gordon shoving Mills's back against the unbroken railing, the knife a dark blur as it spins through Gordon's fingers.

"Gordon, _stop_." John's call is not as weak as it should be. It takes Scott by surprise, and he can see his confusion is reflected in Gordon's features. John gasps, shudders convulsing through his chest, but he pushes through them. "Be... gentle, okay? D-don't... don't hurt him..."

"All right, Johnny." Gordon's easy tone does not match his posture, all lethal aggression aimed at Mills. "I won't—don't worry about it. You just relax, okay?"

"G-Gords... promise me that you... won't let—"

Scott doesn't have time to be horrified by his brother's request—not when John moves.

He tries to crane his body to look around Scott by pushing himself up with one elbow. Scott's attempt to push him back down is quick but futile, and he makes the mistake of removing his hands from around the wound to grab John's shoulders to keep him still.

John pales at the contact, a listless gray overtaking his skin as his head drops back to thunk dully on the floor tiles. It takes a few seconds of awful silence before the pain seems to register, and when it does, it cuts the invisible ropes that have been keeping him tied down.

A scream unlike anything Scott has ever heard from his least emotive brother rips from John's throat, labored and harsh. His arms jerk as he tries to reach for the wound. Scott moves to intercept, leans over his waist to grab both wrists and pin them to the floor so John can't jostle the glass, notes at the same time that his brother's left shoulder is clearly dislocated, but it suddenly doesn't matter, because John's whole body spasms beneath him, thrashing as though his very soul is trying to escape.

The agonized cries turn Scott inside out. He wants to use his weight to smother out his brother's struggles, but that's probably the most dangerous thing he can do, so he resigns himself to keeping John's hands away from his chest. His voice cracks. "John, hey, _John_ —stop, look at me—"

But it's no use. John's eyes roll back under their lids. The desperate howling subsides and is replaced by a hoarse moan, a clogged gasp, then spluttering as blood leaks from his lips, burgundy-black. Whether John's bitten his tongue or he's internally bleeding, Scott's terror could be no less.

" _Virgil_? Virg?" Still hunched over his brother's quivering abdomen, Scott doesn't dare release John's wrists, even though they've gone slack and heavy under his hands, as he looks frantically around in time to see Virgil appear from behind a set of bleachers that sit beneath the overhang of the mezzanine.

Heat spikes through Scott as he realizes he could have gone up there and torn Mills away from John with his bare hands. Maybe then he wouldn't have had to suffer John screaming beneath them.

Virgil's face darkens as he runs forward, medical kit tucked tight beneath his arm. For once, his presence does nothing to calm Scott's nerves, because Virgil only wears that expression when the situation is dire. "Get away, Scott."

He releases John's far wrist, sits back on his heels, and then looks down as liquid squelches between his fingers. Turns John's right hand over to find his glove and sleeve are saturated with blood from fingertips to elbow. "Virg—"

"Is it arterial?" Virgil snaps, dropping to his knees on John's other side.

Scott checks. "No." Long and ugly, but weeping blood instead of squirting.

"Then leave it." He's quick to get to work, and John's struggles grow smaller beneath hands that know what they're doing. "Call the paramedics _now_ —tell them it's an emergency."

Scott nods, not trusting himself to speak. It's an effort to push himself to his feet, and he stumbles back, more eager to get away from his brother's broken body than he thought. He's barely able to keep his own chest from shuddering.

" _Scott Tracy_ , _emergency services have already been contacted_." It's EOS's voice where John's should have been, but the update is welcome nevertheless. " _John_ _'s vitals dropped dangerously low_ , _so I thought it best to intervene_. _Police have also been notified_. _They are on their way to your location_."

"Thank you, EOS." It comes out as a whisper.

The gym plunges into silence. John's lack of noise is equally as unnerving as the yells, and Scott's left to wallow in helplessness. There's nothing more he can do for John, he'd just get in the way, but every part of him wants to do something.

So his eyes travel upward again, and it's as bad for him as it was for John. He spots Mills leaning over the glass railing, arms pinned behind him by Gordon. Mills stares down with an expression carved from wax as he observes what he's caused.

This is no longer the man Scott sympathized with one year ago.

The depth of grief in those gray eyes lingered in Scott's mind for days after he broke the news. But now all familiarity is gone, and Scott refuses to feel sorry for this man. Not with the way Mills manipulated him into the position of powerlessness he dreads. Not with the threats against Alan. Not with John bleeding out on the floor behind him.

Whatever void was growing in Scott's chest is refilled, ignited hot and fast with pure loathing. Feet decide of their own volition that he's going to move, taking him toward the bleachers Virgil emerged from behind. Fury pulses through his bloodstream as he mindlessly thunders up the stairwell, fists clenched, breathing harsh as it rebounds off the enclosed walls, doubling back harder and louder until it's a roar inside his head. Red and black sparks pinwheel across his vision.

The upper level that was taunting him moments ago is now under Scott's feet. Gordon is planted near the splintering gap so he can watch both John and Mills without turning his head. The knife spins with perfect balance between his fingers. Scott's stomach flips at the sight of Gordon within touching distance of where John fell—

No. He didn't fall. _He was pushed_. By the man slumped against the railing, shorter and smaller now that they're on equal footing.

Scott's vision darkens with a rage that's thick and choking like the smoke from the fires.

"You _bastard_." Scott's hiss is raw and wild.

Both men turn, Gordon on light feet, Mills with a slow expression of disbelief. His blinks are sluggish, long hair loose and framing a face that can't quite seem to comprehend what's transpired.

Scott doesn't care—Mills still did this, intentionally planned to get them all here like the maniac he is. "This is your damn fault, everything!"

"Uh, Scott, hey—"

Scott finds himself shoving Gordon aside. He grabs Mills by the shoulders and wrenches his unresisting body around so he's facing the court. "Do you see what you've _done_? Look at him!"

"I... I'm..." Mills stammers, but words appear to fail him, disappearing into a strangled moan.

From up here, the spreading blood is more noticeable, a halo around John's chest that Virgil is now kneeling in.

"You deserve to be there, not him. We did _nothing_ to you, nothing!" Scott tears Mills away from the glass and throws him, hard, watches with burning satisfaction as he skids onto his back. Scott moves to stand above him, fists clenched so tight that nails threaten to pierce through reinforced material. "We didn't kill your son—we tried our hardest to save him, all of them, we _always_ do. And this is how we're repaid? What's to stop me from throwing you off this damn edge right now so you'll know what—"

"I'll stop you."

Hands latch onto Scott's uniform, pull him away, and it's only out of surprise that Scott gives in. Gordon slides himself between them and stares him down with an expression that isn't to be argued with. "Back off, Scott, you need to calm down. John doesn't need you like this, he said to—"

"Get out of the way, Gordon," Scott snarls, raising his arm to push him aside. He can use height to his advantage against the shortest member of the family; he towers over Gordon, savage temper only making him feel taller. "He's not getting away with this."

"No." Gordon doesn't shrink back, lifting both hands to brace against Scott's chest. His blond hair glints with red-hot embers that dance whenever Scott blinks. "He won't get away with it. The police will get here soon, and I'd rather they don't find him torn to pieces by International Rescue's _leader_. So take a damn breath—"

"I said _move_ , Gordon—"

"And I said _no_. You heard what John said!"

"Dammit, I don't care what he said—"

"Clearly not, but I do!" Gordon thrusts a hand out, redirecting Scott's gaze down below. "Look—Virgil's got John, okay? He'll be all right." His arm lifts, points further. "But Alan needs you right now. So will you please go to him, because I... I can't."

Scott falters and a harsh reply dies on his lips. Hatred flutters in his chest, but it comes and goes like fireflies in the dusk upon seeing his baby brother. Alan stands alone, forgotten, rooted to the same spot as when he first arrived, arms wrapped tight around his lanky form. He's the picture of helplessness, not Scott.

"Oh no... Al." Scott exhales, and it's like the rigid framework in his chest collapses, allowing his shoulders to slump as his attention is redirected toward the youngest of them.

Gordon releases his hold on his arm. "Yes, _Al_."

"Okay." Scott's gaze wavers toward a fallen Mills, who looks too dazed to push himself back up. Then it traces Gordon cautiously, finds his younger brother's eyes are too hard, his gaze too strong. "Are you—"

"Fine," Gordon snaps and spins on his heel, turning his back on Scott. "Just go."

Scott goes. Mostly because Alan needs him, but also because the horrid concoction of guilt and rage won't let him stay any longer. What if Gordon weren't there? What would he have done?

He makes himself not look back at Mills. He can't afford to—even a brother in the way won't stop the onslaught of fire and wrath a second time. So he descends the stairs with a roiling heart, barely able to hold it together as he approaches Virgil and John. Virgil doesn't ask for his assistance, so he must have everything in hand, although Scott doesn't stop to check.

Alan is shaking when he reaches him. Too large blue eyes stare without blinking at the spot where John fell and is now lying limp and still as though he'll never move again.

Scott approaches with tentative steps, not wanting to spark an explosive reaction by startling the shock away. He can't bear a repeat of what happened with John. "Al? Alan?"

When he doesn't get a reaction, Scott raises a comforting hand to Alan's shoulder, only to stop short. The sharp movement is enough to catch Alan's attention, and his head snaps around. Bile rises in Scott's throat as he realizes his gloves and exposed fingers are stained with a brother's blood.

He stares at Alan, who stares at his hovering hand.

Scott wants to throw up. Alan whimpers and raises a hand to his mouth like he's trying to stop all of his words from falling out. "Scott, is that... is he... What happened? I just... there was... I didn't mean for... this isn't..." His words are fragile whispers, dissolving complete when lips quiver. " _Scott_ , he just f-fell..."

"Shh—hey." Scott wastes no time pulling Alan into him, wrapping arms that give the impression of strength around his shoulders and spinning him around so he's the one facing John and Virgil. "It's okay, he's going to be okay, I swear." But Scott has no idea if he'll be okay; it's only hope, dangerous hope, that sways his words.

Alan sniffs and pulls back, studying Scott with a gaze that wants answers, even if they aren't truthful. Scott gives him neither, and eventually Alan drops his head onto his shoulder, pressing his body against him so that his shaking feels like his own. Maybe it is.

To think Mills had threatened his little brother, _this_ little brother, innocent yet brave as he is—it makes Scott's anger surge all over again. But right now Alan is his anchor. They stand there, Alan trembling in his arms, Scott muttering assurances into his hair, until police and paramedics barge through the door.

That's when Scott's moment of relief comes.

It's not an exhale or a pause—it's a flurry of movement as other people take charge.

With Alan attached to his side, Scott can only offer the barest of details to the police. A full inquiry will come later on, outside of Alan's hearing. The police take International Rescue's word as law and march up the stairs to apprehend Mills, leaving Gordon hovering without the distraction of whatever noble and useless duty he thought he was fulfilling. Paramedics take over from Virgil, and Scott watches as he becomes the stranded one, left to observe but unable to help.

Scott wants to be with them all, but he doesn't dare move from his spot with Alan. Perhaps he doesn't want to upset him, or perhaps he's too afraid that if he does, there'll be nothing to keep him from breaking down.

It's only when Virgil joins them that he snaps back into the present. "Scott." Virgil's got blood on his hands too, but he doesn't seem to notice like Scott does. "They're taking John to the hospital—"

Scott shoots Virgil a look and unlatches his arm from Alan's shoulders. "Al, I need you to check on Gords for a bit, can you do that?"

He's treated to the flat stare of a sibling who knows they're being maneuvered out of the way. The fact that all of them know Gordon doesn't need checking up on isn't helping Scott's case. Except Gordon is still hiding out on the mezzanine, watching them all from a distance like he never does, and that doesn't slip Scott's notice. He gives Alan a nudge. "Just get him down from there, would you?"

Alan frowns, but he nods, wiping a sleeve across his nose. Virgil gives him a reassuring nod as he passes; then he waits until Alan's out of hearing range before he turns back to Scott. "They think the glass is near his lungs, and he's already lost a lot of blood. His shoulder's badly dislocated, which is going to be..." He swallows and has to look away. "Ah. Tricky. Not much else is known yet, other than the fact they have to get him to a hospital. _Fast_."

Too late Scott realizes he's just sent his anchor away, any sense of regulation leaving with Alan.

Cursing loudly, Scott runs a hand through his hair, frustration swirling dangerously close to the surface. "His _lungs_? Shit."

"I know." Virgil goes to place his hand on Scott's arm but finally seems to notice he's bloody from fingertips to wrists, so he rests his forearm on his shoulder instead. "That's why they need to take him now. I'll ride with him if you're not up to it—"

"What makes you think I'm not up to it?" Scott snaps, shoving Virgil's arm off. "Of course I'll go—"

"I'm not deaf—I didn't miss the scene on the mezz."

"And?" Scott's heart stops as he watches four paramedics hoist John onto a stretcher, and it doesn't restart until he's secured and on the move. "He just tried to murder our brother—"

"I _know_ , I'm just—" Virgil exhales what sounds like the entire volume of his lungs. He wipes the back of one hand across his forehead, leaving a smear of blood an inch above his brows. "I'm trying to make sure _you_ _'re_ okay."

Deep inside, something dark and ugly cracks open. "Virgil, I just had my screaming brother's body bleeding out under my hands. Do you _think_ I'm okay?"

He expects Virgil to square up him, to meet him toe to toe, to throw his own words back in his face—" _you_ _'re not the one who had to ensure he lived until the paramedics arrived_." He doesn't expect Virgil to duck his head, to cross his arms, to remain silent.

Fine.

"You three travel behind us. Make sure Alan's all right. And keep an eye out for Mills's accomplices—they might try to finish the job. I'll see you there." Scott's reply is a growl, and he hates himself for it. He hates that he has to stride away from Virgil with growing resentment about how _calm_ he is, that he can't look back at Gordon because of how he got in the way. Scott hates that he can't control the beast rearing up inside him: an anger that doesn't just stem from today.

Scott follows the paramedics and climbs into the ambulance with John. Seeing him still, unconscious, attached to tubes and wires and machines does not comfort Scott. To know Mills is sitting in some police car, unhurt, while John lies here _dying_ strikes Scott as profoundly unfair.

He can't do anything. He can't even hold John's hand—the right is one long, raw wound and the left is attached to a swollen, still-dislocated shoulder. He has to satisfy himself with running fingers cleaned via antiseptic wipes through John's hair, combing it back from clammy, anemic skin. Two paramedics bustle around them, running saline and blood into an IV. John's still breathing and his pulse is slow but steady. The glass shard continues to protrude like a blood-coated mountain from John's chest, stabilized with sterile bandages swiftly turning crimson.

Scott tries to focus on what the medics are doing, but Mills's words play through his mind, the blame, the single-minded hatred, the vendetta all a destructive butterfly effect since last year. Mills was wrong to say they forgot. They never would—Scott just thought they had all moved on. Yet John's self-deprecating words circle his brain, louder than Mills's, and Scott comes to the agonizing conclusion that they never got past it. None of them did.

Scott believed he had buried the memories, and he _had_ , but it was in the box of things he thought he was no longer afraid of.

The ambulance lurches to a halt, and it isn't until Scott climbs out after the gurney that startling recognition dawns. Cream walls and a red cross are bright next to the blackened crust of a building that Virgil spent his early afternoon hours battling. This hospital is another place that would have turned to ash if Mills had his way.

Scott has suffered personal loss, even those of his own blood, but he will never understand why one man's grief could drive him to seek the ruination of so many other lives. Heartache for one should not inspire him to create heartache for others.

Scott forces weary muscles to follow the gurney, but his brother is whisked through double doors with fast-paced medical jargon instead of a goodbye. Scott pushes after them—their faces cannot be the last John sees, that's unacceptable—but an officer stands in his way. "Sir, you can't go in there. No, don't try to—"

"John! Hey, let me _through_ , I need to be with him!"

"Sir, please, you can't go with him into the operating theater. We've got a waiting room where you and your people will be safe."

"But I—" Scott's _people_. They aren't his people—they're his brothers. And he couldn't keep any of them safe, not today, not here.

A large but gentle hand—like Virgil's, only not really—grabs his arm, and he's steered away through a side door. The officer talks to him, probably reassurances and condolences, maybe parts of the speech Scott gave a year ago. He only tunes back in upon hearing the words, "—trying to apprehend the others."

"The others?" Scott stops in the middle of a pristine hallway, boots squeaking against polished lino. Nurses and doctors pass with perplexed looks, but Scott's words are stone, gaze steel.

"Yes..." The officer hesitates, perhaps not expecting a response from what he probably thought was a shell-shocked victim he was escorting. "Your operative is giving a description of the people he saw in one of the buildings. We expect at least a team of six must have been involved to pull this off..." He trails off, expression tightening into something cautious. "It's incomprehensible to think these attacks were all planned. At least now that he's... now you've... well, there will be no more explosions, not with the leader in custody."

"Of course." Scott's reply is laced with bitterness; he hears the silent "now that he's had his revenge, the explosions will stop." It's a quiet blame, a _because of you_ the attacks started, _because of you_ this city was plunged again into darkness. Even just in thought, the blame will soon sneak into the minds of everyone that resides here. No matter how many lives they saved today, or a year ago, this city will only remember the losses, the damages, the graves that have been dug.

Scott says no more and is led to a private waiting room with plenty of dull assurances someone will be here soon to take his statement. It's the last thing Scott wants to do, especially in a room that has overly white walls dotted with overly happy paintings. Dying yellow flowers sit in a vase on the coffee table, and they remind him of Gordon. Not because they're dying, but the color and how Grandma used to bring him a bouquet of sunflowers every week.

The Gordon flowers sit next to a tray with overturned glasses, a pitcher of water, and a pile of magazines, all untouched. There's a wide window that looks out over the city. Scott doesn't go near it. He'd prefer not to look at it ever again.

Two taupe couches sit adjacent, with a clock above them ticking a fateful time. The seating faces the only door, and Scott wonders how many times surgeons have walked through it with either good news or bad. There are only two outcomes: whole and soon to be broken.

He shudders and sinks down onto the closest couch. His fingers tap on worn microfiber, moving in time with the _tick-tock_ , _tick-tock_.

It's a numbing repetition. Scott tears his hand away and lurches to his feet, begins to pace around the small room, grinding ashy streaks into the gray carpet. Now the officer's words are added to the tumult of voices in his mind. _At least six people_. Did Mills have friends? How were they convinced to join something so horrible if they didn't share his grief, his drive? To hate International Rescue, a benevolent organization, seems wrong and heartless.

But Alan said he saw them, the extra people. He said they were targeting the youngest and the member with dark hair...

Scott stops walking. The thought bites at his flesh like an icy wind, allowing guilt to worm its way into his system.

John wasn't here last year. He was part of the rescue, but he wasn't here on the ground, he wasn't seen. Mills wanted a dark-haired member to be informed of the kids at the school, which means... he _remembered_ Scott from that day.

Scott squeezes his eyes shut. Why did he let John go? It should have been him to return to the school, should have been him threatened, should have been him pushed from that mezzanine—it should have been _him_. Not John.

A strangled noise escapes his throat, and he has to thrust a hand out, brace himself on the wall to stay upright. He should have seen this coming. If he had recognized Mills earlier, things might have been different. If he had trusted his instincts all along, they would be back on the island by now, safe. But instead he dragged his brothers, all four of them, into the hands of a madman.

The door creaks open, yanking Scott's attention toward it. He half dreads it to be a doctor with an update, half expects it to be an officer here to pester him into providing a statement, but it's neither.

Three tired younger brothers with uniforms more black than blue squeeze through the doorway. Scott's attention is drawn to Virgil's hands, first how they're washed clean of blood, and second how they're draped over each of the youngest two's shoulders in a strangely protective manner. Gold-flecked eyes study him warily over two tawny heads.

Scott lifts one brow. _What_?

Alan breaks free and gravitates toward Scott, big eyes searching for answers once more. "Scott, is he okay? Is he in surgery?"

Scott's knees threaten to drop him onto the nearest sofa at the sight of three out of four brothers safe, but he makes himself stand taller. "Emergency surgery," he says gruffly to hide the tremor that wants to escape. "So no, he's not okay."

Alan's gaze drops to his hands, one of which is massaging the other.

"But surgery is good, right, Al?" Gordon steps forward and wraps a lazy arm around his younger brother's shoulders. Scott has no idea how Gordon's able to force a smile, but he does, even though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "He'll probably wake up halfway through to tell them they're doing their job wrong."

Virgil makes a noise that might be laughter, except it's too dry and too sharp. Alan gives a vague smile and sinks onto one of the couches, clasping his fingers together and tucking them between his knees.

"John's a fighter, like me. Not like you lot," Gordon continues, but it's the way his hand strays to his wrist and rubs where his leather bands sit beneath his uniform sleeve that gives away the game of confidence. Everyone knows Gordon has an incessant need for talking things through when he's nervous, which currently grates against Scott's already-raw nerves. "It's just proved by what he said to Orson, right? He knew what to say. Well, John always knows what to say, but this time it was an actual life-and-death situation, so we can't exactly fault him for being—"

"Gordon." Scott flings a hand up between them, blood pounding hot in his ears. He can see Virgil tense where he stands, dark eyes issuing a silent warning behind Gordon's head. "Just... _don_ _'t_."

Because he doesn't want to talk about it. Just thinking about it forces him toward the edge of a personal precipice—even thought he's only realizing right now that he has one.

This is not the time to lose control.

Gordon stops, but only for a moment, probably assuming that _don_ _'t_ gives him leeway to change topics. "Yeah, well, I'm glad the fires are all under control now. I can't believe that people would go to such lengths to get us here, right? I suppose it was stupid to think it was all a coincidence..." He digs his thumb into his temple like he's trying to organize his thoughts. "To think I could have walked past them, that I left Al with them..."

"I was the one that sent you both off," Virgil mutters, words thrumming with a deep ache that resonates in Scott's very core.

Gordon doesn't appear to hear, or he ignores Virgil in favor of a different conversation. "How did you manage to get away from them, Al?"

Upon hearing his name, Alan jolts, but it takes him increasingly longer seconds to lift his head. Scott locks his arms over his chest and has to look at Virgil—silent and watchful in the corner of the room—to make sure he doesn't snap.

"I just... ran and hid," Alan whispers, his gaze darting in Scott's direction before seeking Gordon out again instead. "I don't think anyone was after me anyway, they already had all of you—"

"But Orson said he had eyes on you," Gordon interrupted.

"Yeah... I think I saw him early this afternoon, too. I dunno, Gords. I guess I must have avoided them. I just... I had to come after you, I couldn't stand by and do nothing."

The reason for Alan's nervousness is now clear—and fully justified.

Scott's lips curl, and suddenly he is blind.

Alan's entrance, Mills's shocked face, John falling, all those grieving parents—it's all back at the forefront of Scott's mind, and before he knows what's happening, the floodgates have opened.

Searing heat scorches through him, electrifying his bones and numbing his skin as he fails to hold back the surging rage. "You _had_ to?" he spits, whirling on his youngest brother. "No, you didn't _have_ to, Alan, you never have to do anything. If you'd listened to orders just this once, if you'd put your own safety first, things might have turned out different."

Alan's mouth is hanging open. He leans back, blinking and looking around as though somebody else is supposed to be sitting in his spot.

"Scott, _hey_." Virgil moves forward. "Take a breath, this isn't Alan's fault—"

"No, Virgil, _no_ ," Scott snaps without removing his gaze from Alan. Losing those kids, coming back here, John dying under his hands, the anger, the guilt, the sorrow—it all rears up into an untamable beast that decides to attack him where he's weakest. "I told you to go back to _Two_ , Alan, but you didn't listen, did you?"

Alan shuffles deeper into the cushions. "I... I thought you needed—"

"No, you didn't think at all. Mills wanted to kill you, Alan."

"But—"

"He was threatening to kill you just to keep us in line!"

Alan's freckles stand out dark against his pale skin. "W-what?"

"You heard those people with your own ears. You knew they were after you, yet you still risked your own life by coming after us."

"Scott, I... I'm fine... they didn't—"

Scott's hand trembles as he jabs a finger at Alan. "But you might not have been! You're not invincible, Alan, none of us are—"

Alan's curling up now, trying to make himself smaller, voice slipping into something vulnerable. "I-I know that. I was being _careful_ —"

"I don't care about that, I care that you came after us!" Scott yells, and it's a yell that commands silence and stillness. "Don't you see that's the reason John fell? We were getting through to Mills. He had lowered the knife, John had talked him down. And then you had to walk in and set it all off again."

"No," Alan whispers. "No... what—what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that maybe if you'd followed orders, John wouldn't be in emergency surgery because he has a damn piece of glass stuck through his chest!"

There's a heavy, stagnant pause, broken only by the ticking of the clock, _tick-tock_ , _tick-tock_.

Virgil growls, something low and deep. Gordon's turned toward the window so he doesn't have to meet anyone's eyes.

Alan's are wide and blank, his bottom lip trembling, skin nearly as translucent as John's was. Some instinct forged deep into the core of Scott urges him to take a breath, settle down, apologize, figure out how to erase the terror from his baby brother's face—but it's overruled by a maelstrom of anger that leaves him incapable of regret.

Alan should have known better and that's all there is to it.

* * *

Gordon doesn't hate things very often, but he hates hospitals.

It goes without saying that spending two months in the ICU will do that to a person. When Gordon sees white walls, he remembers the arguments that filled them more than the pain; recalls the grief on other people's faces more than his own. John was absent, Virgil was quiet, Alan cried a lot, and Scott yelled.

Apparently nothing has changed.

Now, as Alan jumps to his feet, fighting back tears, it doesn't exactly add to the list of good times Gordon's had in hospitals. His little brother bolts, doesn't run, to the door as though trying to escape his very skin. The door smashes against the wall on his way out, and Scott doesn't even flinch.

Virgil sends Scott a murderous glare but does nothing with it. Instead, he—and the whatever calming influence his presence was projecting—charges out of the room to hunt down their wayward brother.

He clearly doesn't think of Gordon and how, _maybe_ , leaving him with an enraged Scott is a bad idea.

Gordon watches Scott's brow furrow, eyes darkening at what he likely perceives as Virgil's betrayal for leaving him. Heat throbs through Gordon's sore chest. They don't _have_ sides here, at least none that he can see. Considering John is now fighting for his life, Gordon would like to think this is the best time to band together.

Clearly that isn't the case.

And it seems Gordon's the one who's just drawn the short straw. As usual.

"Well." He breaks the tense silence with a cheery tone, one that doesn't belong anywhere near what just happened. It doesn't belong in a hospital either, and it's more disconcerting to him than it is to Scott if he's reading the tension in Scott's shoulders correctly. "You handled that to _perfection_."

Scott turns his glare on him. "Don't start." Stormy blue eyes with flashes of lighting try to force Gordon to look away, but he holds the gaze as long as he can, because he thinks he hates Scott a little bit too right now.

"You shouldn't have said that." Gordon's tone twists, and the liveliness perishes, replaced by something that does belong here, something dark and foul. He's a chameleon to emotions, he knows he is, and whatever Scott's feeling is leaking under his own skin. "Al only just arrived, Scott! He stepped into that gym and watched John fall—that's all he saw and heard. He didn't know they were after him like... like _that_ , or how serious it was."

Scott's voice shows no signs of cracking. "I know."

Gordon's words rise, but they are more like mournful bells than anything steady, ringing loud in his ears. "Then why did you say that at all? He wasn't even here last year—"

"This has nothing to do with last year! I'm talking about _today_."

"Which still has everything to do with last year!"

"Just be quiet, would you?" Scott snaps, and not for the first time today he steps toward Gordon. Gordon clamps his jaw shut, equally as frustrated at Scott as he is scared the eldest's anger will turn on him. Scott breathes through his teeth, forehead creased. "I can't... _think_."

There is an indeterminable point in those words where something changes.

Gordon sees beneath the angry turmoil to the frightened older brother, afraid of losing what he's almost lost too many times before. Gordon sees through the hard shell, the cultivated sculpture of authority and stoicism to the brother beneath that hates hospitals just as much as Gordon does.

"Scott... he's going to be fine—"

"You don't know that, Gordon," he hisses, and the glimpse of what's beneath disappears with a swing of heavy words.

They lock gazes: molten sunstones battle thunderous blue. Gordon wants to say something, but he doesn't know what. He's been told to shut up too many times today, sent away to run between buildings, shoved aside like an unwanted problem, and he's _tired_. He's tired of not talking.

There's a knock on the door, which is the only reason Scott looks away first. Gordon's disgusted with himself for being relieved that Scott's attention is directed elsewhere, but he can't help the way his shoulders slump, and he exhales a shudder when their stares tear apart.

It's not Virgil or Alan returning, which might be for the best. Instead, an officer peers into the room, ever so tentative in the presence of International Rescue. When Scott draws himself up to full height, energy crackling off his body like he's a billowing thunderhead, Gordon doesn't blame the guy for appearing hesitant. "What is it?"

The officer clears his throat and regards Scott with a wary expression. "Sir, we have apprehended three more members of this group and are taking them into custody—"

"Good," Scott barks. When the officer doesn't leave, Scott shifts his weight from one foot to the other and raises an eyebrow. "Anything else? What's the status on Mills, has he been charged?"

The officer steps beyond the threshold, seemingly unaware that Gordon is also there. He's used to it—everyone else vanishes within Scott's domineering presence. "He's going to be charged, but he's here in the hospital being treated for shock—"

Gordon's relief at extra company is short-lived. A shiver crawls down his spine, triggering a sudden ache in his lower back that almost makes him stagger. Phantom pain always seems to accompany sudden bouts of stress, and today it's almost unbearable.

" _He_ _'s_ in shock?" Scott lets out a laugh that is the furthest thing from humor Gordon's ever heard. It vanishes when the words sink in. "Wait... he's here?"

"That's just it, sir. There has been a request from the... perpetrator. He's insisting he must speak to you—he's quite adamant about it, actually. He's vowing to apologize, saying he didn't mean what he did. Of course, we've told him seeing you is impossible, I just wanted to let you know—"

"It's not impossible." Scott's tone is as sharp as a blade, and immediately he's still, poised, the picture of carefully refined authority. "I'll see him."

"Sir, I'm not sure that's a good idea—"

"I'll see him," Scott repeats, this time with no hint of aggression. It's the sudden composure—and the way Scott's dimples have darkened to black—that sets off a klaxon in Gordon's head. He knows the flatness of emotion is nothing but a veil—the calm before a storm that's brewing inside his brother, and has been, he suspects, for the last year.

"All right..." The officer studies Scott but seems appeased by the show of leadership and forgiveness playing out in front of him. "I'll get two officers to bring him in—"

"No need." Scott raises a solitary hand. Only because he's looking for it does Gordon see the way the tips of his fingers tremble. "It's only talking."

"But protocol states we—"

"You can wait outside. We are International Rescue, after all. We know how to handle ourselves." Scott uses his no-argument tone, one that Gordon's been subjected to so many times that it's basically lost its effect. But to a stranger, like this officer, he has no choice but to obey. He dips his head and backs out the door, shutting it with a gentle _click_ behind him.

"What are you doing?" Gordon hisses. "This is crazy! You don't need to talk to him."

Scott walks over to a set of glasses sitting on the table and pours himself a drink, balancing it carefully in one hand as he watches the light from the window refract through the water and scatter across the ceiling.

The calm is terrifying in its unnaturalness, and Gordon doesn't know what to do. "Scott, you need to stop this, it isn't right."

He wants Virgil. Virgil always brings sense to situations, but he can't leave Scott alone with Orson. He promised John they wouldn't hurt him. So as much as it fights against his very nature, Gordon remains, standing, in a sense, as a shield against more ruination.

Before he can muster any sort of convincing words, the door opens again, and Orson steps through, hands cuffed behind him. The officer calls something to them, but it lands on deaf ears.

Orson's hair has fallen loose, but it's not as untamed as Gordon would like it to be. He wants it to be wild rather than trimmed, just as he'd prefer his beard to be overgrown instead of groomed. If Orson looked crazed, then maybe Gordon could respond in kind. But when he looks _human_ , when he bears resemblance to normality, it forces Gordon to treat him as such.

"I'm sorry."

Scott is deadly still, eyes scouring Orson, searching for the humanity that Gordon can see only too well. "How _dare_ you," Scott says, any sense of civility vanishing to dust. "You have the nerve to apologize just to appease _your_ sake of mind? After what you did?"

"No... I'm sorry you didn't save my son. Every day, I'm sorry."

Scott's jaw shifts side to side, and his hands clutch the glass tighter. "Well, I told you, so am I—we all are."

Gordon nods like it will make a difference. He, at least, truly is sorry, since he was the one who had to confirm those children's deaths.

"But that doesn't mean we'll forgive you."

"I know..." Orson's hair falls around his cheeks as he nods. "I just... I needed to tell you that's not what I wanted to happen... that's not how things were supposed to turn out—"

"Don't give me that," Scott growls. "You planned this from the start—it was all calculated against us."

"You misunderstand me." Orson's head snaps up, his gray eyes anything but remorseful, filled with the same fire that seems to be fueling Scott.

Gordon's breath catches; what was pitiable about Orson is now gone.

"It was supposed to be you," Orson tells Scott. "I wanted you, with your false sympathy, to be up there with a knife at your throat."

Gordon's back flares again as he looks at Scott, but this isn't news to his brother. Scott's eyes darken, allowing no light to enter. "And it should have been me. I'd go back and let it be me if I could," he spits, taking a step closer to Orson. "But it's too late, it's done. So what the hell do you want if not to apologize? Do you just want to _boast_?"

"It was supposed to be _him_ too." Orson nods in Gordon's direction, and he finds himself switching from invisible to painfully noticed by both his brother and their tormentor. "He was there last year, I remember him—"

"Don't you _dare_." Scott's arm launches forward, and Gordon has terrible visions of their reputation damaged forever, but instead of punching him, Scott squeezes his hand into a fist in front of Orson's face, as though he can physically snatch the words out of the air.

Gordon swallows and takes a step back. _What_ was supposed to be him?

"Don't talk about him." Scott bares his teeth, his visage warping into something feral. "Don't even _look_ at him unless you want to end up—"

"But then," Orson interrupts, "I saw the other one, the youngest one, and he fit far better for what I planned. If only that part had worked out—"

"Don't say another word!"

"Your ginger came instead of you," Orson continues. "And you know what, it worked out much better. I had the person responsible for what happened at my fingertips—"

"He _wasn_ _'t_ responsible!"

"It all just clicked into place. International Rescue needed to be taken down—"

"If we weren't there, _all_ of those kids would have died, not just those few children—"

"And then maybe everyone would have understood!" Now Orson's the one taking steps forward. The words, fusing together by the heat they're spoken with, now combine to find the heart of the matter. Gordon can only stare. "You all would have understood if I did this the way I was supposed to. The right way."

"Right? _Right_?" Scott snorts and tosses his empty hand up. "Nothing about this is right!"

"No, it isn't. You all should have died last year, crushed to death instead of Reed, instead of all those children. If it were up to me, your team would've been buried beneath the rubble while you watched, helpless, like I did." It's the way Orson's eyes slide toward Gordon that makes his legs quiver, a flicker of agony sparking through his back.

"Shut up!" Scott lunges, fist raised once more.

"No!" Gordon dives forward. Virgil would have grabbed Scott from behind, but Gordon leaps in front, because that's just what he does. If Scott hits him instead, so be it—it won't be the first time he's on the receiving end of a brother's fist.

Scott's eyes are almost black as Gordon, once again, gets in the way, but at least he arrests his swing. What Gordon knows Scott doesn't understand is that this time it's not to protect Orson—it's to protect Scott. To protect him from whatever cruel headlines will be printed, whatever inquiry might be started, to protect him from having more blood on his hands. Goodness knows they're stained enough.

Gordon raises both hands, palms turns outward, and shakes his head. "Scott, don't, please."

He wants to believe his words alone are enough to make Scott lower his fist, but he never gets the chance to find out when they happen to coincide with the arrival of Virgil and Alan as they barge back into the room.

* * *

Scott can't remember the day he discovered anger was easier to handle than grief.

Maybe because it's always been like that. There's always been yelling when there should be tears, revenge when things should be forgotten. It's only now that Scott realizes his anger _is_ his grief. Some part of him understands it's the same for Mills—but Scott doesn't want to be anything like him, so it just makes him angrier.

He honestly doesn't know if he would have hit Gordon. He'd like to think he wouldn't have, that he wasn't so far gone he'd have taken his own brother out just to get to Mills, but he doesn't know.

He doesn't know.

All he knows is that when his brothers appear through the door, steps dogged by the officer, the red lines crackling and smearing across the black hole in his vision dull until he can focus beyond them. Maybe it's Alan's tear-stained face, eyes ringed with red. Maybe it's the way Virgil refuses to meet his gaze, shoulders angled instead toward Alan. Maybe it's the muscle jumping along Gordon's jaw, tight like it is only when he's masking fear.

Nothing changes the fact that he caused this.

It's a blow he cannot escape. His lungs constrict as he allows his arm to fall to his side and makes himself take three measured steps back. Gordon stumbles sideways, toward Virgil and into Alan, who clutches his brother's elbow, burying his nose in Gordon's shoulder like he used to when he was little. His vision lightens and broadens further when he realizes Alan's trying to hide—whether from Mills or him, he can't tell.

"Scott, what are you doing?" Virgil barks, even though he's no doubt already absorbed the situation.

"Talking," Scott says, and raises the glass to his lips, even though he isn't thirsty.

Mills is still, silent, and at first Scott thinks he doesn't like the extra attention—or he's aware of the officer's presence in the room.

But no, Mills is staring at Alan.

Gray eyes shimmer mournfully, drinking in the sight of Scott's youngest brother. There's a strange intermingled hope that dances across his face, and it turns vacant, transporting him to another time. Scott watches him, wary and uncomfortable at the unexpected mood swing. He's aware of the officer's gaze on him, waiting for orders, but he wants to figure this out first.

There's something about the attention Gordon must not like, because he shifts himself in front of the youngest. Mills blinks and growls as the movement disrupts whatever fantasy he slipped away to, his face twisting into something that looks less human and more savage. "You look like him," he snarls, low and fierce.

"What?" Alan whispers, peeking around Gordon's shoulder.

This shatters Mills's fantasy completely, and he lunges forward with a wild shout. The officer and Virgil are quick to get in the way. Virgil grabs one of his shoulders and yanks him back, but not before Mills gets a closer look.

Alan clutches tight to Gordon, who responds by shifting himself in front of him fully. A sharp beam of guilt fires through Scott as Gordon is once again forced into the in-between. Alan still looks back at Scott, even after everything he said, with an expression of painfully innocent confusion.

"You were supposed to _die_ ," Mills roars, and now he's struggling viciously against his two captors, who are attempting to push him out the door and away from Alan. "The plan was to bring the young blond in, and I thought I wanted the other one. But then I saw _you_ in that building." Mills jerks his head toward the window, hair flying over his face.

"Stop," Alan whispers into Gordon's shoulder.

Mills lashes out at Virgil with his leg, and Scott leaps forward to throw himself in front of Alan and Gordon.

"My people were supposed to bring you in, and you were going to die before everyone. They would all _see_ , all lose you just like I lost Reed! It was never supposed to be the ginger one. That was just to get everyone else there and hold them—it was supposed to be _you_."

"Get him out!" Scott yells. He can hear the blame in his previous words echo in Mills's, and it's more than sickening. "Lock him in hell where he belongs—"

"What are you afraid of? That I'll come back and try again? The world needs more people like me who know what a danger you are." Mills bucks and writhes, barely restrained by handcuffs and grown men. "You'll kill more kids one day. Maybe next time the world will be lucky and they'll be your own!"

The officer hurls Mills through the doorway with an extra push from Virgil, and the door snaps shut, writing his words into the walls. His crazed cries echo from the corridor, but it's the last comment that embeds itself into Scott's mind.

Because that comment plays on every foundation of fear, every sleepless night he's ever had. It is hospitals and broken bones, close calls, anxious hours, and the overpowering realization that Scott's grief has only ever manifested as anger because he hasn't experienced it fully. He hasn't lost what's most precious to him, not yet, even though he's been close.

Today it's been too close.

A yell pent up for too many years rips from his lungs, and as red erupts in the center of his vision, the glass in his hand goes flying with all the power he can muster. It explodes against the door, in the space that seconds ago was occupied by Mills's head—in the space Scott realizes too late is terrifyingly close to Virgil's head now.

Virgil throws an arm over his face and staggers back, bent over at the waist. Gordon's all muscle memory and reflex, twisting so he's between Alan and the ricocheting shrapnel. Alan has disappeared completely into his brother's chest, sobs wracking his form.

Virgil straightens, slow, stiff. Fragments of glass trickle like water off his clothing and hair as he lowers his arm to stare at Scott.

He stares back, chest heaving, unable to tear his gaze away from the tidy lines of blood etched around his brother's glazed gold eye.

Then the thick shock stiffening Virgil's face, the horrible despondency—it all dissolves into something unexpected: pity. Virgil, who was broken after last year, who should be broken now, is staring at him like he's the one that needs fixing.

Maybe he is.

"Virg... I—" Scott's breathing stutters in the silence, a sharp counterpoint to Alan's muffled whimpering. Every scrap of anger within Scott smashed with the glass that's now glittering on the floor like dust beneath their feet. Virgil moves forward, and in three strides he's by Scott's side, wrapping a strong arm around his shoulders.

"It's all right, Scott," he whispers, and Scott's not sure what he means. All right that he's angry? All right that he's broken? All right that he's hurt his brothers, all right that John fell, all right that they lost those kids? No. Nothing's all right.

But it doesn't matter right now. Scott performs a careful inspection of Virgil's face, using his thumb to wipe away blood before it can trickle into his eye. Virgil stands quiet, unflinching, his patience an endless well he can tap as Scott reassures himself he hasn't blinded his brother. Mercifully, both eyelids and eyes appear undamaged, although Scott finds he can't stare into their warm depths for more than a few moments at a time. He can't bear their open willingness to understand, not right now.

Suddenly drained, Scott deflates into his brother, a quiet anguish washing through him, too hot but pure and cleansing. With it comes revelation: even though he understood Mills's grief a year ago, perhaps more than he thought, he certainly doesn't understand the monster it mutated into.

Scott lifts his head off Virgil's shoulder. "Alan..." he whispers, reaching a hand toward him. But he's interrupted by another knock on the door, and it's enough to hollow the center of Scott's bones out. A nurse pushes her way into their little room, and the floor drops out from under Scott's feet, plunging him into free fall.

His hand scrabbles against Virgil's arm, desperate for a grounding point, because he knows that expression. Knows how it feels stretched across his face. He wore it one year ago in this very city.

He can't do this. He doesn't want to hear what she has to say. Hearing the words marching in his head spoken by another voice will surely break him.

The nurse hesitates as four pairs of desperate eyes round on her. Then she squares her shoulders. "I have news about John."


	5. Sadness Between Splinters of Light

**Huge thank yous to everyone who has reviewed, particularly the guests I cannot reply directly to. Your comments have all been lovely, so thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts and reactions. A** **t least one bonus chapter will go up on my tumblr in the next day or two, also scribeofred, so pop over there if you're interested.**

 ** **Enjoy the final chapter!****

* * *

Smiling after what he just saw took courage. Most people would think it took someone strong and selfless, someone with a special kind of optimism to power through and keep on standing. But even John, who was the grandmaster of the objectivity game, fell silent as Gordon delivered the news.

"No... no survivors." Gordon's voice threatened to splinter apart. Perhaps it did, wavering in the air like a broken birdsong. "I saw the... saw _them_. It's confirmed."

A horrific quiet followed, during which Gordon had to remind himself what a smile was. He had to patch his back together with cheap glue and wonky cardboard, then layer a yellow filter over top that said _I_ _'m okay_ , _why wouldn_ _'t I be_?

He just saw six children with lifeless eyes and outstretched hands. Of course he's okay. Why wouldn't he be?

"FAB." John was either fooled by his homemade patch job or he just didn't care. The platinum veneer of apathy overlaying his words suggested the latter. "I'll inform Scott. You go help Virgil."

No, Gordon didn't think it was brave or gallant to smile in the face of death. He thought it was cowardice to hide behind something that didn't exist. But he continued to wear his _stupid_ smile—so pulled at the stapled seams that it threatened to break at any seconds—because it was that or lose himself to darkness.

He had to get out of this gym—then everything would be all right.

But when he stepped forward, an ache that had been lurking in its temporary hiding spot for the last hour finally snapped its teeth at his lower back. He grunted and stumbled, landed hard on his knees. His back flared, but the pain was nothing. Gordon could handle pain like it was second nature. That wasn't the issue. It was the image of a girl—so small, motionless, unblinking—running through his mind that brought on the nausea.

On his hands and knees, he was even more aware of the world spinning on an axis of fate that wasn't fair and never would be. Suddenly he was dry retching through his smile, body heaving, throat on fire, gasping for air to purge the sight of dead children from his mind. He wanted a brother, or his father, to be there telling him it was all a mistake.

But he refused to contact them or call for help.

Just like he never told them his back started twinging after the first aftershock, or that he was terrified of what he'd find when searching for Virgil, or that he didn't _want_ to be the one to come here and see these kids. But his brothers had seen plenty of horrors worse than he had. So he didn't complain and refused them the extra burden.

Pulling in raspy breaths, Gordon closed his eyes. A few precious seconds to remind him where he was, what he was doing. When the pain subsided and the nausea stopped its brutal swell, Gordon sat back on his heels. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth, shakily climbed to his feet, and began to walk.

Moving out of the gym and into the hall was the right step to get him back on track. He knew if he stopped then, he'd never get going again, so his only option was to push on. He had to help Virgil. Virgil, who had kids with him, kids that were _alive_. They still had a chance to swim in the ocean, to let galaxies glitter in their eyes, to kindle laughter and love and light in the palms of their hands.

Gordon put on the smile for them, because they would survive. Somehow, in the journey down the treacherous corridor, that smile became more genuine. He stoked his own light, searched for that purpose, that drive which let him do this job in the first place, and found it again when he saw them.

Six children, skin pale beneath layers of dust, eyes ringed and glassy, clutching to one another as though the ground would disappear if they let go. Virgil kept them close and his attention kept returning to them ever few moments to check if they were still there. They were, terrified but alive, so Gordon met them with a smile—one that inspired courage, even if the person wearing it felt he had none. He didn't let concern over why they hadn't moved further or why Virgil had to steady himself on the wall taint his only weapon.

"Hey there, guys," he murmured, moving up behind them while making sure his voice didn't add to any part of the terror. It seemed to work: when they turned to him, it was with relief rather than shock. One of the boys, blond hair turned grimy brown, whimpered and lurched toward him. The others clung tight to one another, except for a small girl with pigtails who was attached to Virgil's hand. Gordon grinned at her. "It's time to get you all out of here, don't you think?"

There were nods and a small smile from the boy heading toward him. They looked bruised and scratched, and one boy clutched his arm to his chest, but that seemed to be the extent of their injuries.

Out of them all, it was Virgil who looked most relieved. As Gordon moved closer, he understood why.

Apparently Gordon wasn't the only one not to call for help when it was needed. Virgil's face had dipped to a grave shade of white, drying blood turning brown above the corner of his eyebrow and down the side of his face. His shoulders sagged, and the relief glimmering in his eyes was too bright and too pleased for him to possibly know about what had just happened in the gym.

So Gordon kept that to himself too, forced himself to meet Virgil's gaze without blinking, without flinching. If he was worried, the kids would echo it, simple as that. Gordon squeezed the shoulders of the boy who was hovering in front of him, before pressingly lightly on his back to steer him into the group. "This will be easy. We've just got to be careful that we don't stand on anything unstable, but we also have to be quick, like spies. Can you guys do that for me?"

A couple of them looked at Virgil, who gave them a reassuring nod and then rubbed his forehead, before they replied with murmurs. The girl in Virgil's grasp gave a small squeak. Her face was as pale as his, and she was trembling against his side, but Gordon couldn't see any visible injuries. Probably shock. Virgil was better at triage than he was—he'd notice if something was wrong.

They just had to get out and then everything would be fine.

"All right, well, we'll go first." Gordon, as casually as he could, moved over to Virgil and looped his arm around his brother's waist. Virgil leaned on him instantly; it was extra weight of someone that had been through a lot, so Gordon took it gladly. Something clamped in his back with the added pressure, but he fought it with his smile. "You guys follow close behind." Seeing the disappointment of the blond boy, he quickly added, "Or close beside, that works too, and we'll be out of here in no time. All right? Let's go."

The little boy slipped beneath Gordon's other arm, nuzzling his nose into his side just like Alan used to, and the others hovered so close he could practically feel their breath on his body.

"You okay, big guy?" Gordon asked Virgil, injecting his tone with a teasing edge, as though the question was a mere throwaway and not one that clenched around his heart.

"Yeah... I..." Virgil pressed his fingers into the corner of his brow; his wince was unmistakable. "I'm fine. Is everyone... else all right?"

"Fine," Gordon replied, and it was the hardest lie he'd ever told. "You kids are all right too, aren't you?" he called, glancing over his shoulder to look at their determined faces, and pride surged that they were all so eager for _life_. "You're all champions by the look of it."

There was a small, unexpected giggle from his side, and Gordon grinned down at the boy. Winking only enlarged the watery but confident smile. Confident because he thought they would get out now that they were actually moving. Confident because, slowly, Gordon's sureness was blooming too and he could sense that. Confident because there had been so much tragedy today, why would there be more?

"What's your name, bud?"

"Oli," he whispered in a voice not dissimilar to how Alan once sounded.

"That's a cool name. Suits a spy, don't you think? I'm Gordon."

"That's... that's less like a spy," Oli replied, and with every joint step they took, his voice got a little stronger. Gordon felt warmth filter in where they had been none before. His smile shed its cardboard confines and broke into pure sunlight. Oli might not grow up to be a spy, but at least he had the chance to grow up.

Gordon squeezed him tighter. "But more like a rescuer name, am I right—"

A small cry tore all warmth away, echoing out to haunt the broken halls. It stopped sixteen feet in a timeless pause.

The girl holding Virgil's hand doubled forward, slipping to the ground with a rough gasp for air. Virgil's head turned sharply, and he stumbled as Gordon untangled himself from both his weights. Oli sniffed, but Gordon kept moving, ducking down next to the girl.

Sprawled on her side, she groaned, a grimace pinching her pretty face. Beads of sweat dribbled down her forehead, her breathing came in rapid, shallow gulps, and a bluish tint overtook her lips.

Gordon placed his hand on her forehead. "Hey, it's okay, everything's fine." Her skin was cold and clammy, instead of hot like he expected. "Virg, I... can't see what's wrong..."

Virgil appeared to blink himself out of a trance. Even then, his movements were slow as he got down on his knees, grimacing every time he shifted his head. He unhooked his medkit before placing it on the ground and spoke in a tone that could settle the wind if he tried. "Hey there, sweetheart, you'll be all right. I need you to tell me where it hurts—can you do that?"

Light purple veins streaked over her eyelids as they fluttered in shrunken eye sockets. Her body twitched as she coughed, and flecks of red appeared on her lower lip.

"Her pulse is weak and fast." Virgil's hand was clamped around her wrist. "That's indicative of internal bleeding—I think she's hypovolemic. Oh hell, h-how could I miss this? But she didn't—call it in, Gordon, we need urgent medical assistance, now! And give her some space, would you?"

"All right." Gordon climbed to his feet and backed away, hand rising to his comm. "John, do you read me? One of the kids needs urgent attention, can you inform the paramedics—"

Gordon stopped.

He stopped, gaze riveted on Virgil as he sat back. As he settled her limp hand on the cracked linoleum. As he stared down at his hands as though they were what caused this earthquake in the first place.

Silence fell.

And suddenly the world was spinning again, a globe on that unfair axis which would never stop moving. The pain in Gordon's back drew razor sharp teeth down his spine, and he had to hold back a howl, a _scream_ , lest it echo into insensitive air and engrave itself upon halls of darkness.

He felt a nudge beneath his arm and looked down at Oli's face, at huge eyes and pale skin, at a child who longed for reassurance, courage.

Gordon found he had none to give, not even in the form of a smile.

* * *

Gordon can't trust mirrors. Never has and never will.

They only reflect what's on the outside. They reflect what people want to show others, what they carefully mold out of clay to fit with the world's expectations. Gordon knows best that how people look is not an accurate representation of how they feel.

Just like now.

When he was in the hospital after his crash, he spent a lot of time around mirrors. Perhaps that's when he learned to distrust them.

They'd place one in front of his hand or arm to create a reflected illusion. It was supposed to trick his brain into thinking movement had occurred without pain. But Gordon hated mirror therapy almost as much as he hated hospitals. They'd sit him there for hours on end trying to get it to work. He'd just get frustrated with himself, tired, _sore_ , and eventually they'd take the mirror away. They never stopped to think that he just hated seeing his reflection, as brittle as it was, and how that caused more pain than the actual therapy.

Scott would yell at him for giving up or not trying hard enough, as though that would help. It was all very patronizing to have him put on his commander tone and urge him to do better, like he was some recruit that had no idea what he was doing, when in fact it was Scott who was scared to be so clueless. Some part of Gordon had always known his eldest brother was just trying to protect him, trying to help him recover, but it didn't stop the resentment from seeping in.

Gordon has since realized that Scott yells for three reasons: when he thinks he's right, when he's helpless, or when he's scared for a brother. Unfortunately, the only person yelling helps is Scott. It hadn't worked when he was recovering, same as the mirror therapy hadn't worked.

Today, yelling still doesn't work and neither does mirror therapy.

Except Gordon isn't trying to get a limb to work. Standing in a small bathroom with the door locked behind him, he's taking time to put himself back together. He's staring at his face, still streaked with flaky ash, attempting to trick his brain into thinking it doesn't hurt to wear his smile. But he can't. This city seeps the joy embedded in his core away and replaces it with an unrelenting sorrow, one that winds around his limbs like a weed to a plant, cinching tight to the point of suffocation.

Gordon braces himself on the wall-mounted sink and takes a deep, uneven breath.

The tap squeaks as he twists it. Cold water gushes out to swirl around stained porcelain, and he cups shaking hands beneath it, splashes his face in the hope it will wipe everything away. He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, opens them to find his reflection is still there. Still staring with dull eyes.

Some part of him wants to stay here forever. He's not sure how long it's been, but in here he's locked away from the contained realm that is this city. In here he doesn't have to pretend or stay strong for his brothers—he can be as broken as he feels and no one will know the difference.

But there's nothing to do but think, and soon he finds himself studying the bathroom, taking in every spot of mold, every age-yellowed tile. Again and again he finds his attention drawn to the corner of the mirror, where a closer inspection reveals there's a jagged snowflake of cracks. He reaches out to run his fingers over the nucleus point of impact, skin prickling beneath a surface that aspires to be sharp. He wonders why it's there.

It looks like someone lashed out at it in a fit of rage, which would make sense in a place that encourages grief.

Gordon can't help but think of Scott.

The memory of glass smashing against the wall next to Virgil's head leaves a bitter aftertaste on the back of his throat. If it weren't for Virgil's rescue-honed reflexes, he might be blind right now.

Scott was _that_ angry, and he didn't even lose a brother.

Gordon wonders if he climbed through the mirror to the other side, would he be in a world where Scott was the one to punch this mirror in a grief-fueled rage? A world where John wasn't breathing in the next room, his heart monitor beeping with a resounding reassurance of life?

Or perhaps it would be the crueler universe that allowed Orson to get to Alan after all. Or even himself, though that scenario doesn't scare him as much.

The thought flutters past his mind with the briefness of a moth but lands with intent to make him shiver.

One slip up, one change, and things might have been unspeakably different. It is the fragility of life—as delicate as glass, as this broken mirror, as Gordon's bones feel—that makes him bite his tongue to stop the building yell.

He takes a step back from the mirror, and his shirt and thick sweatshirt—well, Virgil's sweatshirt—bunch around his ears as he rolls his shoulders, trying to rid himself of that faint twinge hovering on the abyss of escape. The way the last explosion had thrown him to the ground hadn't done his back any favors, but after hearing John's screams—sounds of anguish that will haunt his dreams for nights to come—his pain seemed insignificant in comparison.

John.

Gordon's heart spirals, moving in time with that damned axis of fate that, for some reason, decided John would survive. Decided they could be happy—even if none of them are.

But John is alive, breathing, okay.

Right, so he's not _okay_. He took a long time to patch back together, was in surgery for hours, and nurses were still bustling around him in his private room when Gordon escaped to the bathroom. His lung was nicked by the glass, nerves in his hand had been sliced, his shoulder had to be relocated, and his back is severely bruised. Usually Gordon would have made some joke about it being another day in the office, but any sense of humor withered away upon seeing his older brother lying as broken as he once had been.

For the first time, Gordon understands how his brothers felt, and it's the worst feeling in the world.

Now they're here again, like they never should have had to be. So he has to go out and be there for John and the rest of his brothers, even though part of him wants to stay here and stare at the mirror until everything stop hurting.

Even though part of him can't look at Scott without wanting to yell back.

Even though part of him wants to throw up when he hears that all-too-familiar beeping.

But he moves, because if he stays, he'll never go forward again. The door unlocks, and Gordon walks back into his brother's room like he didn't just spend the last half hour or whatever it's been staring at his unfamiliar face.

It's a nice room, all things considered. Not as large or elaborate as the luxury suite Gordon found himself trapped in during four months of hell, but it's not bad for a private executive ICU room. The walls are paneled with honey-brown wood, and there's enough seating for all of them to sit around the bed. A nurses station is located directly across the hall, and as per Scott's demands, two uniformed officers are standing guard, one outside the door, the other farther down the corridor.

Fifth floor or not, Scott's taking no chances. This, at least, Gordon can agree with.

John looks pale.

Well, he always looks pale, but this is the sort of pale that reminds Gordon of open-casket funerals. He lies there with tubes sticking out of his arms, blanket drawn up to the bottom of his ribcage. His chest is bare except for the gauzy white bandages hiding a hole straight past his heart and the bruising peeking out from the brace immobilizing his shoulder. Gordon knows, because he studied them, that there are gashes up his throat closed by surgical adhesive, but from the far side of the room he appears strangely peaceful.

Gordon doesn't want go any closer, he doesn't want to see the damage in all its gory detail, he doesn't want to break the illusion that John's just sleeping. Sadness rolls across the space between them like a splash of salt water, stinging at his eyes, and he has to look away.

The nurse said he would likely wake up within the hour, but Gordon's not sure he wants him to. When he wakes up, he's going to have to feel everything, and Gordon knows better than most how hard that is.

Scott and Virgil sit to the left of John's bed, taking up the entire loveseat tucked under the room's single, wide window—the one that Scott immediately drew the sheer curtains across. They don't block the sunlight entirely, but somehow the entire room seems dark around the edges, the shadows of unhappy memories clinging like cobwebs.

Gordon wishes, not for the first time, that the curtains could be drawn back, but he doesn't dare ask Scott. He's barely said a word since Orson's visit, and Virgil's been making sure not to leave his side. It hasn't escaped Gordon's notice that Virgil always has some part of him touching Scott, whether it's their knees, their shoulders, or even a hand on the arm. It appears to be his version of weighing Scott down, smothering out the flaring anger.

Gordon, for one, is glad Scott's calmed down.

He's not sure how much energy he has left to stand between two people who let their grief get the best of them. Because that's what he's had to do today. Orson and Scott are not dissimilar, even if they never see it. Gordon wants to tell him that, to throw it in Scott's face that he isn't always _right_. But that would undo all of Virgil's hard work, so Gordon stays quiet.

The sleeves of the sweatshirt he nabbed from Virgil's locker are too long, but he doesn't mind. He'll take any scrap of warmth right now, even though it's futile. Hospitals leave him cold somewhere no fabric can touch.

There's nothing left to do but sit, so he reclaims his spot in the plush chair next to Alan's, where they've been for the past who knows how long. Gordon's hand finds Alan's back, starts rubbing slow circles through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, even though the crying stopped a while ago. Alan didn't seem to notice he left either, but he shapes to Gordon's hand.

A gel icepack that Alan was using on his hand lies abandoned atop a bedside table made of the same golden-brown wood as the walls. Next to the growing puddle of melting condensation sits a pitcher of water and stack of cups—paper, not glass.

Yeah, uh, not thinking about that. Moving on.

"Hey, bud, how you holding up?" Gordon keeps his voice quiet simply because it feels wrong to crack the air open when everyone seems dead set on _not_ talking.

Virgil's dark eyes flicker upward at the sound, looking across John's still body to gaze at them with too much intensity. The cuts from the glass Scott flung at him are sealed with surgical adhesive, applied by one of the nurses while they were taking turns giving their statements, but they still stand out angry and red.

Scott never looks away from John's face. Perhaps he feels guilty. A vicious part of Gordon hopes he does.

Alan's back shivers under Gordon's hand. "I'm fine."

"Fine?"

Alan gestures at John with trembling fingers stained dark by bruises. He snatches his hand back to tuck it under his other arm, caging himself tighter. "Yes... well, no. How do you think?" he whispers.

Gordon looks at John and wonders when his chest shrank. He feels Alan's sadness, Alan's fear, because he's the type of person that will bend Alan's light back at him; who, even just for a moment, sees the world though his dried tears. "He's going to be all right—"

"I _know_ , Gordon, that's not what I mean." Alan sounds a bit like Scott, and perhaps it's the slight rising of his voice that captures their eldest brother's attention. Alan shivers under Scott's gaze and ducks his head so their eyes don't have a chance to meet. "I just..." He sighs and bites his lip. "I just can't get my head around all this..."

"Yeah, well, neither can I." And it's the truth, because Gordon can't. His hand is still rubbing circles, and he's not sure which of them he's comforting any more. "Especially not what Orson said... about you. I mean, there's something really—"

"Do we have to talk about it?" Alan leans forward to detach himself from Gordon's hand. "I can't... I don't want to think about what... what _might_ have happened." He glances at Gordon, and there's a brief flash of anger, but it's quickly smothered by shock.

Gordon wonders why. As far as he knows, the yellow filter is still perfectly intact. Perhaps it's slipped to a shade of pale blue, but the screen is still there. He can feel it pressing into his skin.

Alan's mouth curls down and he exhales. Dull blue eyes, normally so brilliant, flicker toward Scott but return to Gordon, and his voice lowers to a mumble that's barely audible. "Sorry, Gords, I'm confused is all... and _tired_. Really tired."

"It's okay," Gordon replies, bringing his arm back to flop over his lap. Alan doesn't let him escape, nudging his shoulder as a further way of apology.

Gordon's fingers slip under worn-soft cuffs to tangle in the leather bands wrapped around his wrists and switches topics, even though he's perceptive enough to know 'don't want to talk about it' means 'don't want to talk about anything.' But Gordon needs noise that isn't that damned heart monitor. "How's that hearing holding up?"

Alan stares at John as he massages around his bruised fingers. "It's nothing."

It certainly wasn't nothing when Gordon saw Alan in that office building, barely able to keep his balance, concentration squashed by interference. In the wake of worse injury, it appears all other pain takes a back seat. The notion annoys Gordon, even though it makes him a hypocrite.

"What hearing? Was there a problem?" It's Virgil who breaks the silence from the other side of the room. Gordon's weak exasperation shrivels into nothing.

"No problem." Alan's eyes are glued to John.

"Gordon said—"

"Leave it, Virg." Exhaustion threads Scott's words, clearly a sharp needle into one who's not used to just _leaving_ things from the way Virgil straightens.

"But—"

"We've had enough problems for today," Alan mutters. It appears, for the first time, he and Scott are on the same page.

Gordon represses a scoff and meets Virgil's eyes over the shallow but steady rise and fall of John's bandaged chest. For a moment they are mirrored voices of the soul, both of them fighting brothers who need help but don't want it. Virgil gives a brief nod before turning back to Scott, soothing hand ever-present. Gordon bumps Alan's arm with his own and wonders how the hell it got like this.

The ensuing silence is filled with an endless _beep_. _beep_. _beep_. _beep_. _beep_. _beep_. It's a monotone soundtrack that's played in the background of most of Gordon's nightmares, and it takes considerable willpower to keep himself from hurling the machine through the wall and into the next room.

Alan, at least, doesn't seem bothered by it; he rests his head on Gordon's shoulder, and it takes less than a minute for his breathing to settle into a steady rhythm. Gordon closes his eyes too, even though he has no intention of sleeping. Not in a hospital, not even snuggled deep into a sweatshirt that smells entirely of Virgil and his calm, steady presence. No, he's waiting.

Sure enough, it doesn't take long for Scott and Virgil to begin whispering. They still tend to wait until little brothers are—apparently—out of the picture, which is a habit Gordon's beginning to suspect they'll never break. Clearly they don't realize their whispers carry without any problems.

"They should never have brought him here. What gave him the right to be treated for shock?" Scott asks. "They should have known better."

Gordon cracks one eye open. A lifetime's worth of experience ensures he'll learn more from his brothers' body language than their words.

Scott's fists are flexing on his knees, and Virgil's downcast expression bleeds a silent _you should have known better_. He doesn't say it, Gordon knows, only because of the intense loyalty between him and Scott. Virgil's forgiveness reaches unfathomable lengths, and sometimes Gordon wants to hate him for it.

But he can't—not when Virgil knows what to say when no one else does. "They were just doing their jobs, Scott, but I know. It did feel wrong."

Scott dips his head.

"You should never have talked to him, though." Virgil's fingers find their way to Scott's wrist, a way to tell him he's condemning but not mad. "What good came of that?"

Scott's shirt tightens around his shoulders. "I _know_ , it was stupid, but I just... I don't know, I needed him to know what he did. If John hadn't... if he had..." He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut.

Virgil's fingers tap the back of Scott's hand. "But he didn't—John's still with us. It was unfair of you to put Gordon in that situation."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have left."

"Oh, what, and leave Alan to cry his eyes out in the bathroom?"

Scott flinches.

Virgil draws his tone back, ever careful. 'I'm just saying, he looked scared."

Gordon has to suppress a growl. It's mostly because he's in the room and isn't being consulted on the matter—they're treating him like a child—but also because he wasn't scared of Scott.

Well, maybe a little, but he didn't look it. Did he? Perhaps there are more holes in his filter than he thought.

Scott's short laugh edges toward mocking. "He knew what he was doing—don't ask me why he did it, though."

"Maybe he'd seen enough pain," is Virgil's answer, but his eyes scan Gordon with the same confusion present in Scott's brow. Clearly he doesn't know why either.

Gordon thinks it's simple.

He did it for John.

He got between them because his brother asked him to, not because he felt sorry for Orson. The truth is he didn't—doesn't. He was ready to tear the knife down skin the way John's skin had been torn.

But then he stood in between. He stood where John _wanted_ him to stand, and the picture had widened to something more complex. Orson's eyes had reminded him of the girl with the pigtails, the little boy with blond hair. They reminded him of what at the time felt like an endless mourning he had suffered through quietly.

Last year Virgil had worn his grief like a band around his wrist; it became the very silence that shrouded him. Gordon wore his through the little things. Through the questions he didn't ask, the rescues he didn't want to hear about, the nights he wasn't hungry, the days he didn't swim. They were all small, insignificant, and went by unnoticed. Perhaps that's why Virgil can't understand why he stood in the middle.

Scott glances at Alan. He hesitates over his next words, side-eying Virgil as though trying to gain a read on how he's feeling. Virgil lifts his chin a fraction and offers the tiniest of reassuring smiles.

Gordon wants to laugh. He's fine, Scott, why wouldn't he be?

"His son can't have looked... _that_ much like him..." Scott whispers.

"I guess we'll never know." Virgil's dark reply is mellowed by a soft sigh.

"His name was Reed. You think a father wouldn't know what his own son looks like?" Gordon's eyes open fully and words burst from his mouth before he can stop them. It's not confrontational or angry—the question hovers in the air for the simple purpose of Gordon needing to say _something_ about all this. "There must have been resemblance to cause such a reaction. He wouldn't have created a plan this elaborate in the first place if there wasn't."

Scott must read something else in his tone. "What are you saying?" he asks, leaning forward. Virgil's hand is back around his wrist in a heartbeat. "Why are you standing up for him?"

Gordon digs his thumb into his leather bands. He doesn't want to be angry, and he's not. But there's some buried resentment in him, not just toward Scott, but one that reaches out to them all.

Even John—for shutting him out with silence when he most needed to talk.

Scott avoided speaking about it, Virgil _couldn_ _'t_ speak, and John only spoke about work. That's how it was for a whole month, and by then Gordon's feelings had been shoved somewhere he wasn't supposed to look.

But he's had enough. "I'm not standing up for him! Hell, Scott—do you think I'm that stupid? I'm just saying that he had a reason and you shouldn't try to... to reduce that to nothing."

Scott's eyebrows shoot up and he yanks out of Virgil's grasp. "Excuse me? He had _reason_ to do what he did?"

"Not one that I defend!" Gordon's jolt of his shoulder makes Alan sit up, blinking heavily between brothers. "His motive was losing his son—he's not crazy, he's not a psychopath. He's just a guy that lost his kid. An everyday father—"

"He is crazy, Gordon," Scott snaps. "He set a city on fire just to get us here—that sounds pretty insane to me."

"Don't you see what you're doing?" Gordon makes himself ignore Virgil's stare that's pleading for him to stop. Once he starts moving forward, he can't halt—they should know that by now. "You're diminishing him as a human, with real human emotions—"

"A human that threw our _brother_ through glass." Scott's hiss makes sharp nails claw up Gordon's spine. "Do you even think before you say these things? He lost a son, I get that, but it doesn't give him an excuse to tear other families apart too."

Gordon sits back and swallows through a sore throat. His chest hurts, a deep ache clogged around his heart. Alan must see something in his face, because his hand reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.

"Of course I think about these things—I've had plenty of time to th-think." Gordon can't help the way his voice breaks. Virgil looks away like he can't bear another person's sadness on top of his own. "I'm just saying that his grief from last year, something we all felt and something he repressed—it turned into this!"

"Yeah, it turned into something _crazy_. I don't even know why you're doing this, Gords, just drop it." Scott shakes his head and leans back into the sofa, holding his hand up as a barrier between them.

Gordon's never been good at respecting barriers.

"Just drop it?" he whispers. "Why? When are we going to talk about it? Tomorrow? Next week? _Never_? Just like last year?"

"Last year is gone, Gordon, it's over, we don't have to talk about it—"

"Did you ever think that maybe I wanted to?" Gordon's voice is a breaking wave of unexpected misery. It makes Alan snatch his hand back, Virgil flinch, Scott _stare_. "Do you think that maybe if we had, we all would've understood Orson a little better? We all could have avoided this situation altogether. That's what John was trying to do today—don't you see? He was trying to _understand_."

Scott's teeth snap shut behind open lips. If he's trying to bar angry words behind them, he fails. "Understand him? Why would we possibly want to do that?"

"Because... we..." Gordon can barely keep his own voice alive. It wants to curl up in his windpipe and never break from its confines, because for all his ability to talk, he can't find the words. It's times like this he longs for John's empathetic order, his blunt honest, his ability to analyze and categorize feelings into mental boxes.

But John is unconscious, pumped full of drugs designed to provide his body with a chance to heal. Gordon doesn't blame him for leaving him to flounder, even though he wants to.

It's Alan who fills that spot and says exactly what he feels. It's Alan, with his small but confident voice, who gets all the attention directed back at him. "I feel sorry for him."

It's Alan who puts into words what Gordon's been trying to say all along.

* * *

Virgil doesn't have time to register Alan's comment before Scott lurches to his feet. Instinct makes him tug at Scott's sleeve as he tries to prevent whatever smoldering embers are left over from the previous flare-up from igniting again.

Then Alan's words sink in, and Virgil drops his arm, tempted to leap up as well. _Sorry for him_?

Sorry for the man that made him step back into that school and walk down the hall where he lost a child due to his own negligence? Sorry for the man that allowed a fire to spread so close to a children's ward, sorry for the man that threatened them all and almost killed John? Virgil can't believe what he's hearing.

Apparently neither can Scott. "Alan—how... _how_ can you say that?" Each word is a rumble in the hollow cavity of Virgil's chest. Alan's biting his lip but holding Scott's gaze with only a slight waver. "Feel sorry for _Mills_? He's a psychopath that threatened to kill you—he almost murdered John! He—"

"Do you think I don't know that?" Alan tries to snap, but it comes out frayed at the edges. "It's just sad, okay? Can we not just admit that all of this is... is sad for everyone?"

"You weren't even there, Alan!" Scott snarls. Virgil braces himself on the edge of the seat. "Both times you weren't there, so would you please just stay out of this?"

"Don't yell at him!" It's Gordon who gets to his feet, and it's Gordon who places himself in front of Alan like it's second nature. "Seriously, Scott, you really can't try to see things from other people's points of view, can you? Not even for a second!"

The tension coiled around Virgil's heart sprouts thorns that jab deep. It hurts to realize their own brothers do not know what he knows: that Scott sees other people's views too often, the way he doesn't leave enough time to be himself. Virgil knows what his younger brothers do not: that some days Scott has nothing left to give.

They've been here too many times today, only this time it's Scott that Gordon's protecting Alan from, not Orson.

Not that Alan needs protecting. He rises too and hovers behind Gordon, rubbing one of his arms just like Mom used to when he was fidgety and nervous as a toddler. "Scott, I'm not trying to... When he was yelling about his son, he looked at me and... I just feel bad that he lost his kid. I feel bad that he was driven to do this."

"Nothing _drove_ Mills—he made the decision by himself. Sane people don't do things like that—"

"And there you go again, generalizing him, reducing him. His name is _Orson_ , Scott." Gordon throws his arms out, as though trying to show them the real him, and lets out a laugh stripped of all color. Shards of ice perforate Virgil's stomach. "Does it make all this harder to bear if he's sane? If he's not just some whack job acting on impulse?"

Scott stiffens, head turning in Virgil's direction like he needs to know he's still here.

"Oh, of course it does, because if he _is_ sane, then this is International Rescue's fault. We started this by what happened last year." Gordon shrugs, eyes gone flat and hard with a bitterness that has crawled from the depths of somewhere Virgil didn't know existed. "We caused this man's grief, we caused what happened today, what happened to John. But you can't take that, can you, Scott? So you just chalk it up to insanity and are done with it."

The insult is aimed at Scott, but barbs glance off to sink deep into Virgil's raw heart. "Gordon, lay off," he snaps, but it doesn't have the commanding quality he expects. No one seems to hear him anyway.

"Well, why can't we just be done with it?" Scott takes a step forward, and this is Virgil's cue to rise. He does but stands back, arms folded, wary of stepping forward and taking sides. "Why can't I just hate him for what he did? Oh wait, I forgot, this is you and you never leave things _alone_."

"That's not fair!" Alan says, loyal, as always, to Gordon.

The too-rigid angle of Scott's spine makes Virgil's bones ache. They're all exhausted, none more than Scott—the last thing he needs is to be fought against in a time when they need one another most.

Gordon plans his sweatshirt-wrapped fists on John's bed next to his leg and leans forward. "Yeah, well, maybe if we had talked all this through, you wouldn't have been angry at Orson in the first place." His eyes aren't leaving Scott's, a declaration of war. "Maybe you wouldn't have agitated him with every _wrong_ thing you said—"

"Wrong? _Wrong_? I was trying to get Alan and John out of danger—"

"Well, good job with that, if I do say so myself."

"Shut up, Gordon, or I swear—"

"What? You'll smash a glass over my head?"

Torn flesh stings at the reminder, but Virgil shakes it and the memory off—it's already forgiven. He steps in front of Scott, angling toward him as he grabs his arm, more to deflect his attention and diffuse tension than to pledge any sort of allegiance. "Scott, hey, it's okay, it's all right." He turns to look over his shoulder. "Gordon, you need to stop. Alan, take a seat. It's been a rough day all around, we all need to—"

"Oh, come on, Virg." Gordon doesn't usually turn nasty when he's hurt or afraid, but right now he _sounds_ nasty. Virgil counted on him being his ally, but apparently standing on Scott's side of the room makes him the enemy. "Surely you of all people understand what we're talking about."

Virgil freezes, words jamming in his throat, fingers tightening without his consent around Scott's arm. Scott's eyes seek his out, and Virgil finds himself helpless to stop what's coming.

Scott's protectiveness is not a good mix with anger. "Don't you dare bring him into this, Gordon. You need to take a damn walk before I force you out of this room—"

"Ah, yes, excellent, that will shut me up—"

"I don't understand what you mean." Virgil's voice releases in a gust of untimely winter that leaves a chill silence in its wake. He shakes off the frost creeping through his limbs and forces himself to meet first Gordon's stare and then Alan's, because no matter what Scott says, he should be involved. "Are you talking about that girl from last year?"

Scott's fingers are gentle as they brush his elbow. "You don't have to talk about it, Virg—"

Virgil holds up a hand and directs his words mainly to Alan. "No, it's okay. Listen, I was the one who sent you off today—alone. If Orson's plan went ahead, it would have been _my_ fault he took you. So how on Earth am I meant to feel sorry for the man that threatened my little brother? I'm sorry, Al, but I can't understand. Not this time."

"He only did it because I look like his son," Alan says, like it's a legitimate explanation. His gaze shifts to study John's face, and he swallows; there's no nod, no sign of understanding. It's like invisible battle lines have been drawn, two on one side of John's unconscious form, two on the other, and no one wants to find ground to balance on.

"That's no excuse, Alan," Virgil says, trying to soften his voice so Alan won't feel admonished.

"Circumstances should never be used as an excuse for people's actions," Scott says. Virgil can sense they're on the same wavelength, mindsets bound by an ingrained protectiveness, but if Scott continues to use his words as backup, it will only widen the gulf between them and the youngest two. "See, Gordon, that's how you should feel—"

Gordon's still leaning on the bed, all forward-facing aggression, and his eyes, which have been lingering on Virgil, return to Scott as hardened ocher. "Don't tell me how I should feel—"

"Well, Virgil's right, isn't he? Would you be so empathetic if Alan was dead? I don't see how you can even comprehend sympathizing with him—"

"Because I _saw them_!" Gordon's words have reached the point where they are louder than Scott's, but it's not anger that's propelling them forward—it's a deep sorrow that strikes quivering blows upon Virgil's core. "I saw them, that's why I thought Virg would understand, but he doesn't. None of you do because I was the one that had to go—"

"What are you talking about?" Scott growls, making Virgil wince. Scott can't receive the undercurrent that Virgil's attuned to, the hidden cry for comfort. He can only hear the accusation. "What's this got to do with—"

"Everything!" Gordon's voice wavers into the air, leaving a tragic impression in its wake. "I saw _seven_ dead children that day, seven! I've felt grief for every one of them, I've seen their faces when I sleep, and I've felt everyone move on around me, just like Orson did. I've been told to keep quiet and shoved in a corner, so, yeah, maybe it's bad that I understand him, maybe it makes me a bad person too, but I can't help what I _feel_." His head drops, bowed over John's feet. "I can't help that the memories are hard to fight."

It's the notes of despairing appeal, painfully reminiscent of last year, that slip a cold hand through Virgil's flesh to claw with icy nails at his heart. He feels like his chest is caving in, because yes, he remembers that little girl, he remembers the way she fell, the way he didn't even _realize_. But he never thought of Gordon, because it wasn't Gordon's fault. None of it was. The guilt was his alone to bear.

Except of course it wasn't. Gordon was right there. He watched her die too. Together, they're the two most capable of understanding what Orson did and why.

And yet Virgil can't bring himself to empathize, not this time. His natural state is to be empathetic, but he's not himself, not here. He's a reflection, something twisted and backward, trying so hard to resemble normality. "Gords..."

"It's just this damn place screwing with your mind." Scott shakes his fingers out of their clenched fists and exhales.

"Are you serious?" Gordon's head snaps up, expression caught between disbelief and pleading as he stares up at Virgil like Scott is his problem. "Do you not see what you're doing? You're reducing _me_ now, you're reducing how _I_ feel!"

"I'm not doing that! It's just crazy to say the things you're saying when John's lying right here—"

"There goes that word again, _crazy_."

Alan can't keep quiet for long. "Scott, we're not saying that you have to—"

"Stay out of this, Alan, you don't need to be involved!"

"I can have my own opinion!"

"Well, this time it's _wrong_."

Virgil hates himself for joining in, but he has to, he can't stand this. "Guys—Al, Gordon, stop teaming up on Scott, we're all in the same situation here—"

"Of course you'd take his side."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Even if you did understand, you'd still take his side—"

"That isn't true—"

"For heaven's... _sake_... you're all right." A voice, punctuated by breaths that drag through the air like nails against concrete, makes them all _stop_.

The silence that falls should make Virgil think of glass shattering beside his face, but it doesn't. This is a silence that reaches out to fill all the cracks in the room, a gentle spirit hovering over a ragged wound. It is this silence, brought on by one person alone, that attunes Virgil to the world around him once more.

Nobody dares break the silence—except the one person that can't help it. Gordon's whisper is a splinter in an already fragmented room. " _John_?"

* * *

John didn't visit Gordon a lot when he was in the hospital.

Gordon didn't think he minded at the time. John was studying, there were lots of brothers around, and he'd call now and again anyway, so it wasn't necessary for him to be there. John always was more of a distance person.

But Gordon remembers the day he did come to visit. He'd failed a tough session of mirror therapy, a tough day of being with Scott, a tough day of staring at his own unfamiliar reflection—and then John walked through the door. John, with his quick line of wit, his knowing half-smile, had waltzed into the room without so much as a blink at Gordon's appearance.

He spoke to him like he used to, treated him like he used to, and refused to wrap him up in soft cotton or push him too hard. John was just... there, his voice pulling Gordon from the downward spiral of his own mind, even if it was just for a moment.

John's voice can do that a lot during rescues, even just at home. But he uses it sparingly.

Now is as good a time as any to use it.

John's words are a clear path through the emotional bramble patch Gordon's ensnared himself in. His voice is as weak as wind sighing through grass, but it's _there_ , tearing Gordon from his built-up cliff of resented sorrow. "John?"

"That's the one..." John's eyes are closed, his body so still that Gordon wonders if he's imagining things. He's tired enough he's approaching that stage. Then John's lips move ever so slightly and his brows nudge together, a lick of perspiration on his forehead from the effort.

His eyes open.

Everyone, as though ashamed to be caught fighting, relaxes their postures. Gordon lifts his weight off the bed and takes a step back, clears his throat, trying to get rid of the tremor sitting at the back of his tongue.

Alan emerges from behind Gordon's shadow. A hesitant smile that would never have been possible thirty seconds ago spreads across his face. "John!"

Virgil's movements are slow, like he's dragging heavy chains behind him, and he appears to fold in on himself. His shoulders and head lower—whether in relief or shame, Gordon can't tell.

"John, oh my— _hey_." Scott's hand plows through his hair. "You're... you're awake?" He phrases it like a question and rocks back on his heels, breaking from his tense stance to move closer to John's bed. His movements are agitated, reaching out to John before drawing back.

"Apparently." John's whispered reply elicits another moment of silence.

Gordon lets out a short laugh.

Heads turn in his direction as the brief burst transforms into what sounds more like a choked sob. Gordon looks at the dropped ceiling panels to avoid everyone's stares. Relief pushes heavy behind his eyes, clogging his throat with a tightness that barely allows him to breathe.

From over the sharp angle of his cheek, Gordon watches as Virgil's expression softens. He's sensible enough to ask the question that John will dislike but has to be asked regardless. Just another thing to add to the list of why Gordon hates hospitals. "How... how do you feel?" Virgil murmurs.

A crease forms on the bridge of John's nose. "Like... I've been dragged from the brink of death... just to listen to you lot... _yelling_."

Virgil's mouth opens and then closes. Gordon's lips twitch. There is no traditional reply to that sort of answer.

"Right..." Virgil says, "of course. Of course it's bad. Did you want me to call the nurse? I'll call her, just hold on—"

"No." The fingers of John's bandaged right hand flutter as though he's trying to lift them, but he hisses and they subside. "I don't... want them—"

"John, you need to—"

"Later."

"But—"

"Does it hurt?" Alan's rather childish query overrides Virgil's. He's staring at John with a sad curiosity that's tainted by a shadow of guilt—one Scott should take all the blame for, Gordon decides.

Ever so slowly, John shifts his head on the pillow. Where Scott and Virgil might have lied to spare him, Gordon and John know truth is more important to Alan than being pandered to. "Yes."

Alan nods, visibly unbothered by this answer, as he grabs an untouched cup of water off one of the side tables, plops a straw in it, and holds it out so John can drink. Gordon winces in sympathy as he watches the achingly slow rise and fall of John's Adam's apple as he swallows.

"Yeah, well, John, it was... it was really touch and go there for a while." Virgil shares a nervous glance with Scott, who in turn gives a sharp nod, as though granting permission for help to be called. "You're not just going to be okay—"

John tries to move, but between his sliced arm and injured shoulder, he has no leverage to push upward. "I'm _not_ okay, Virg, and I'm not going to pretend to be," he says, voice rasping through teeth that give no sign of unclenching. "That's the problem here—none of us are."

There's another pause as Scott and Virgil study John with identical furrows between their brows that Gordon knows from experience means they aren't actually listening to what's being said.

John meets Gordon's eyes and flicks his own upward, the universal sign of frustration. Gordon's laugh really is a choked sob this time, and he has to bring a sleeve up to his mouth to stop any more emotion from cascading out.

"John, you've been through a lot," Scott says, on Virgil's side like always. "If we just get the nurse in here to explain what happened—"

"Just stop it." John glares at Scott. Gordon's never been so appreciative of his no-nonsense attitude. "Stop standing around like I'm dying—I'm not. Gordon's right, we need to talk, so let's talk."

"But, John, you've just—"

Gordon watches as John molds his voice to suit Virgil's mood, sandpapering the hard edge into something smooth and calm. For a fleeting second, Gordon wonders if his distrust of mirrors came from John. "Virg, soon, I swear—but right now I want all of you to sit. Okay? Will you do that for me?"

Alan lowers himself into his chair without hesitating, probably due to exhaustion as well as a desire for things to calm down. Gordon refuses to sit down until Scott does.

Yeah, right, like Scott's going to give in first. "No, we're not doing this here, not now." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Come on, John, you don't realize the seriousness of what happened—"

"Oh, I think I do." Any sign of smoothness in John's voice is reversed for Scott—it's all steel and stone with their eldest brother. "We've let this rot too long."

"It doesn't mean we have to—"

"I feel sorry for Orson too."

John loves silence; he's always made that clear. But Gordon doesn't think he quite understands how he controls it. Because six words is all it takes for a thick silence to descend upon them, leaving mouths wordless.

Virgil's legs appear to grow weak as he staggers backward, dropping into his seat like a felled tree. " _How_ , John?" he whispers, and the small shake of his head, the way his shoulders tremor, is enough to pull Scott down to sit next to him.

Virgil's damaged question is steamrolled by Scott's. "After what he did to you? After what he did to all of us? I don't understand how all of you can possibly say that—"

"No." John shuts his eyes, teeth taking his lower lip hostage. The way his breath hitches and the tendons along the sides of his neck flex make Gordon's lower back throb in remembrance and sympathy. "No... no, Scott, you don't understand," he says when the spasm releases him. "And you don't have to. Just respect that it's not as simple as you make it out to be. He lost a child. I hope I never know what that's like, but I do know what it's like to be... accountable for that death."

"You're not accountable—"

"I am, Scott." John's words are strong, unwavering, and Gordon's left wondering _how_. He couldn't talk for two weeks after his accident. "Pretending I'm not at fault just makes it worse. Because the truth is, I should have answered that call sooner. I should have detected them in the first place. I shouldn't have been distracted. If any one of those things changed, those kids might be alive and today would never have happened."

"But..." Scott rubs his elbow. John is a logical person, and his logic is hard to fight—especially when he's lying in a hospital bed after being impaled less than nine hours ago and yet his thoughts are still clearer than the rest of theirs. "You were under pressure, _stressed_ —"

"None of that is an excuse."

"He still tried to murder you," Scott says, eyes scouring the laminate floor like there's an explanation printed in the pattern.

"I don't forgive him for that," John whispers, the hardness rimming his eyes vanishing somewhere distant. "I just... I know how he feels. I understand how grief can mutate into... this." His lips tug in a straight line back toward his ears. "Especially if you don't talk about it."

"So it's not bad to feel sorry for him?" Alan shuffles forward in his chair so he can rest his hand on the edge of John's bed.

"Of course not." John's reply is soft and full of what Gordon knows Alan is searching for.

Gordon can't help but look at Scott and raise his eyebrows in silent victory. When the man who was impaled by glass can empathize with the person responsible, no one else has the right to be angry.

John, the perfect mediator, must notice because he adds without falter, "But I also understand how you feel, Scott, Virg, as older brothers."

The three of them share a glance that doesn't spread to include Gordon. His muscles coil, and a shock of what feels like barbed wire rakes down his back. "Hey, I'm an older brother too, and we don't need protecting or sheltering or whatever the hell it is you think you're doing. Caring about us doesn't give you an excuse to try and punch the guy's lights out. Or me, for that matter, because that goes completely against—"

John arches a brow in Scott's direction. Scott winces. "Gordon—"

"No, I've seen just as many horrors as the rest of you—so has Al, so you can just... just stop worrying about us... and... using us an excuse to fuel whatever vengeful plans you've got going on. It's a cycle. Don't you see it's all just a cycle?"

Too late, Gordon realizes he's the last one left standing, filter dissolved while everyone _stares_ with their stupid expressions of sorrow or pity. He bites his lip and tries to restore his filter with a ghost of a smile, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I know, I know, shut up, Gordon."

"No, you're right." Scott concedes to a reluctant nod. "Neither of you need protecting, we know that, but it doesn't stop us from trying. When someone threatens you, it just... it's unforgivable, okay? I could never empathize with a man that hurt any of you—"

"You don't have to," John says, but his flinty eyes are on Gordon, boring a hole through his chest. Gordon swallows and lowers himself into the chair next to Alan's. It isn't as soft as he remembers.

John controls the silence again, and within that they all become increasingly aware of someone who hasn't spoken.

Virgil's gaze is vacant, muted, and he's staring at John's bandaged chest like it's the only thing keeping him from disappearing entirely. Gordon's throat burns. He hates that they have to put Virgil through this again, hates that he's had to be strong, hates that he's forced Virgil to remember that girl as though she was mere ammunition in a pointless battle.

Hates that a moment ago he was angry at him for wearing his grief so blatantly when that's all Virgil knows how to do.

"Virg?" John's voice is uncharacteristically light.

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

"Oh... yeah... yeah, I'm fine."

Scott rests his hand on Virgil's knee and squeezes it gently. Virgil's fingers come down upon his wrist, and he sighs through a shudder. "I guess I'm just thinking about how... that girl, my girl. She just dropped, you know? I didn't have time... I didn't _react_. I did nothing, there was nothing I could do... like today, John, you just dropped."

The heart-wrenching quaver in Virgil's voice reverberates through the whole room. Chills crawl along the underside of Gordon's skin as he thinks about her, as he thinks about all of them.

"You reacted today," Scott murmurs. John dips his chin in a tiny nod, though Gordon suspects he doesn't remember.

"Yeah." Virgil's shoulders tremble under his hoodie. "But just... imagine how easily it could have been one of her parents doing this? Her parents would have felt the same way... h-hatred for International Rescue... for what I did. Imagine my negligence leading to this—"

"No," Scott is quick to interrupt, and the way concern washes out any trace of anger in his expression is close to miraculous. "You were hurt, she was bleeding internally, and it was practically undetectable. This wasn't your fault."

"If it wasn't my fault, then it wasn't John's either." Virgil's eyes never move from John's chest. "That's how it works here, Scott. John's right: it's worse pretending that it wasn't our fault, pretending that we tried our best. I should have noticed it, it's that simple—"

"Yeah, sure, and if it was your fault, then it was mine too." Gordon can't help the note of animosity that trickles into his tone. "Come on, guys, we were all at fault that day. Even Scott, because obviously Orson remembered you. Maybe it was what you said, maybe it was how you said it, maybe it was merely because you gave him the news, but we all contributed. This isn't just on one of us—it's on all of us. We've all known that this whole time, but we've never said a damn word about it."

"Not Alan." Virgil's words have cracks like the mirror in the bathroom. "He had nothing to do with it. Orson would've killed him for nothing."

"Don't say that." Scott's knuckles whiten around Virgil's knee.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"

"Maybe I'm not responsible for last year, but I am partly for today, right?" Alan looks to Gordon like he's the only one who can answer the question. Or perhaps he's just too nervous to meet the others' stares. When Gordon says nothing, Alan glances back at John. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry that I forced him to push you, that I ruined what you were trying to do. I'm sorry I didn't listen, I just wanted to help you—"

"Whoa, Al." John appears to be trapped under a mile of water as his head rotates slowly toward Alan. Gordon doesn't miss the way his brows lower and pinch in the middle. "What... are you talking about? None of this was your fault... how did you get that idea? So it was bad timing. He might have... done it anyway."

It's the _might_ that gives John's game away, but thankfully Alan doesn't appear to notice. His eyes slide toward Scott, and Gordon, still harboring traces of resentment, mimics him, certain John will catch on. He does. "Scott?"

Scott pulls his hand from Virgil's knee and buries his forehead in his palm with a growl, but there's no sign of aggression in his features when he raises his head again. "I am so... Alan, I didn't mean any of that, you know I didn't."

"But you said—"

"Yeah, well, I was wrong and stupid—"

"And scared," Gordon adds, though according to Scott's glower it isn't necessary. "Well, hey." Gordon's chuckle, or what pretends to be a chuckle, is an attempt to push _something_ back into place. "If we're all taking bits of blame, may as well throw some at Alan too, right, kid?"

Alan's smile is reluctant.

John's is not. "What was it you said before? Oh, that's right. Shut up, Gordon."

Gordon grins at his brother, his _alive_ brother, and mimes zipping his lips. The weight of Virgil's concerned stare threatens to steal the smile away, but his attention is redirected elsewhere.

John hisses and throws his head deeper into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. A small groan escapes from between lips pressed into a bloodless line as his bandaged hand tries to reach for his chest. His fingers shake. "Mmm... Virg..."

"Right, that's it." Virgil is instantly on his feet and pressing the button for the nurse, whipping up the air John managed to settle down. "Give him some space, yeah?"

Alan draws his knees up to his chest, like that will help, and watches as medical personnel bustle in.

Gordon's heart punches the back of his throat, forcing him to his feet and behind the ring of seating around the bed. The words are too familiar to what Virgil said last year when the girl collapsed. His stomach churns. The sight of pastel-clothed doctors and nurses bustling about, the wailing of machines in distress, the way the corners of his vision darken are unwelcome reminders of times past, of times to come, of the pain that's dotting itself up his spine. His fingers tangle in and yank his leather bands as he trots away, hoping he looks like he's off for an evening jog, but instead he returns to the small bathroom with every intention of throwing up.

It doesn't come, and he's left bracing himself on the sink once more, eyes darting up to those stupid cracks in his stupid reflection. The emotion associated with the worst memories of his life presses up behind his eyelids and threatens to escape.

The door pushes open.

Gordon straightens, wiping a hand over his eyes. "Ever heard of knocking?" he jokes, though, really, it's not a joke at all.

Scott measures him with a glance filled to the brim with sympathy Gordon just accused him of not having. "You all right?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Uh-huh. Well. John's okay—I think the morphine's just wearing off—"

Gordon grimaces. "Could do with some myself."

"What?" Scott takes a step forward, expression darkening. "What's wrong?"

"Oh no, nothing, I..." Gordon laughs, and it bounces around the tiled washroom like an empty shadow. "I just really _hate_ hospitals."

Scott pauses before answering, but when he does, it's genuine all the way. "Yeah, well, the feeling's mutual."

They stare at one another, Scott with his arms crossed over his chest, Gordon with his hanging loose by his sides, holding each other's gazes like the world isn't falling apart around them.

But out of the corner of his eye, he sees that mirror, sees that there's no smile, and can't help the way his chin trembles. He breaks the stare first, brings up a hand to press the sleeve-covered heel of his palm into his eye, trying to hold back the heavy clouds that threaten to burst.

Scott's hand settles on his shoulder, grip gentler than he deserves after everything he said. "Gords—"

"No, Scott, don't, I'm fine—"

"You're not, Gordon, _hell_ , I'm so sorry, bud—"

"Nope, no, you don't get to do this." Gordon tries to twist out from beneath Scott's hand, but there's no escaping, so he resorts to turning his head away. "Alan's the one you need to apologize to, not me. You... you should never have said all that to him, he was in a bad place."

"I know, and I will. But this isn't about him... hey... look at me, Gordon."

Yeah, no. If he does, there's no stopping the flood that's been building.

Scott sighs. "Listen, I'm sorry for today, more than you know, especially before with Mills... with Orson."

"Like I said, apologize to Al or Virg, not me."

"No, Gordon, this is about you—just this once you can't reflect this off onto anybody else. Because I forced you into a place you never should have been forced, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for even coming close to hurting you, I just... couldn't understand why you would defend him. Maybe I understand a little better now, maybe I don't, but either way, I'm sorry—"

"Okay, stop, it's okay—"

"It's not okay." Scott's fingers curl beneath his chin and turn his head so Gordon has to look at him. His thumb traces his jaw in time with the thoughts swirling behind eyes of the sharpest blue. "The fact that I didn't... didn't even _think_ of how you were feeling last year, that's not okay. Nothing about what I said was even remotely all right—"

"Yeah, and everything I said wasn't okay too, but we're brothers." Gordon shrugs and brushes Scott's hand off his face. "John's hurt. You were upset, so was I. You don't have to apologize, I get it, I forgive you—"

"Hey, no, it's not that easy. You say that now but do you think I believe you? After all this? Little do you realize, but I know you, Gordon Tracy. So you and me, we're going to sit down and talk about this when we get home, okay? Just like you want."

Gordon's sniff turns into a snort. "While sipping cocktails by the beach?"

Scott grunts. "Make it beers and you've got yourself a deal. After today, we'll need it."

"That's true." Gordon's nodding again and isn't ready for when Scott draws him in.

"Thanks for not letting me hurt him." Scott's hand finds the back of his head, and Gordon can't help but press his nose into his brother's shoulder, enveloped in a combination of Scott and Virgil's scents, even though the stench of smoke continues to cling.

Scott's shoulder shifts as he chuckles and pushes to hold him at arm's length. "Though you're a damned idiot for getting in the way."

Gordon's smile spreads. "Did you expect anything less?"

"I suppose not."

Gordon smacks his arm away. "All right, get off me. Will you go talk to Al now? He needs you more than I do."

"Yeah..." Scott takes a deep breath and stares at his own reflection in the mirror, studying it with eyes that are too vulnerable, too nervous to belong to Gordon's oldest brother. Then he looks away and all trace of weakness is gone. "We really will talk this time. I promise."

Gordon's surprised to find he believes him. "Sure. I'd like that."

Scott dips his head and exits the bathroom, opening the door up to the world of noise beyond before it shuts again. Quiet ensues. Gordon looks into the mirror and throws the smallest of smiles onto his lips.

It doesn't hurt this time.

He wonders if Scott understands how his soft words can be more powerful than his loud ones. Perhaps mirror therapy would have worked if no one shouted.

With the sliver of courage that goes into his smile, he tugs open the door between him and his personal hell. A nurse exits the room, leaving John lying with his eyes shut, his pursed lips and too sharp, too pale cheeks the only breaks in the mask he prefers to wear. Virgil's switched to what was originally Alan's seat and is tugging the chair closer to the head of John's bed while Scott gently steers Alan to a pair of chairs in the far corner of the room.

Gordon stands and watches them. Watches as Alan only needs a few words to make him lean into Scott, to restore trust once more with only a hand on his back. Not that it stops Scott from talking, from apologizing, from reassuring.

His fingers tingle when he realizes Scott needs words as much as he does. Then he wonders why he's surprised. If he can find common ground with Orson Mills of all people, surely there are more similarities between him and his brothers. Maybe they all have a bit of Orson in them, concealed deep, waiting to lash out once triggered by grief.

Gordon buries the thought.

He buries it because he doesn't want to think of what the trigger might be. He doesn't want to think of something that's going to extinguish his attempt at a smile.

So he pulls his own chair right up close to Virgil and flops down next to him. "You okay, big guy?"

Virgil shakes his head and is finally honest with himself. "No, not really. Not at all."

"Join the club."

"I can't help thinking of her parents. Maybe I should have reached out to them—should have explained."

Gordon hums. "You think that would've made anything better?"

"No..."

"You should have reached out to me. We went through the same thing, you know."

Virgil rubs the base of his neck. "I know, but you also knew what happened, how I... didn't handle things. Maybe if you weren't there, then I could have pretended it didn't happen like that. It's just... I wish I could have explained to them that I was sorry about what happened."

"Virgil, there was nothing to explain." Gordon sighs and leans back, lifting his legs to rest his feet next to John's. "I mean, we're setting here saying we're all responsible, then I take another look and think, shit, hang on. You know what did this? Oh yeah, an _earthquake_. I don't know about you, but I don't remember causing that."

Virgil's eyes narrow to gold slits.

"We've taken on all this guilt, but imagine if we hadn't been there at all? The same thing would have happened but worse, probably."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Nah, just thinking out loud. I mean, if anything, Orson should have thrown mother nature through a balcony railing. Right?"

Virgil's jaw tightens. John goes to the effort of opening his eyes for the sake of glaring at him.

"Sorry." Gordon rolls his shoulders to disperse the flicker of absurd amusement rising in him. "At least you can tick free falling off your bucket list, John."

Virgil's open palm collides with the side of his head. "Gordon!"

The edge of John's mouth flickers upward and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "It's not as... fun... as I thought it'd be."

"We'll have to try again, then."

"Sign me up."

Virgil groans and places an elbow on his chair's armrest so he can drop his head into his hand. The movement draws John's attention to the sealed gashes around his eye, and he lifts a brow at Gordon.

He doesn't bother hold back a smirk. "Scott threw a glass at him."

"He... _what_?"

" _Gordon_ ," Virgil tells his palm.

"And he yelled at Alan, and he tried to punch Orson, but I got in the way. See the chaos that happens when you're not around?" Gordon's tone is jovial, but John's smile fades as he stares at Scott with... not anger. Sadness. Probably making a mental note about sorting him out too.

Then he turns his eyes, glassy around the edges but still pin-sharp at the pupil, on Gordon. "You got in the way?"

"Yeah—"

"Too many times today," Virgil growls.

"He asked me to." Gordon gestures to John, because, really, it's his fault. Blame where blame is due and all that. "I just couldn't help but think that could have been your last request, you know? You were lying there, _dying_ , and you asked me not to hurt him. I had to do it."

He expects them to laugh or smile alongside him like it's stupid. Because it is stupid, some notion of gallantry or loyalty that put him in danger. But there's no laughter. Virgil lifts his head to stare at him like he's seeing him for the first time.

John blinks. Then he tries to shift his hand, white bandages against white sheets. The movement proves too much, so he offers a half-smile instead. "I knew you'd do it."

Warmth rushes through Gordon, and for the first time in this city, he isn't haunted by the memory of former happiness—he feels the real thing instead. "Because I'm an idiot or because you trust me?"

"Both."

"A sentimental idiot, apparently," Virgil mutters, but the impression of a smile is building itself back up.

Gordon laughs, and this time it's not empty or false or painful. "Says the sentimentalist. Hey, Virg, you're not going to stop talking this year, are you? Because I'm here... to talk about it... you know, if you want. You too, John, though I know how you don't shut up once you get started, so I might retract that offer."

Perhaps it's the casual way he says it that makes Virgil chuckle and John roll his eyes. Gordon's smile grows bolder. John closes his eyes, but there's a peacefulness about his expression that wasn't there before. Maybe it's the drugs, but Gordon likes to think it's because his heart is lighter.

A squeak of laughter from the other side of the room makes Gordon's head turn. Alan's grinning at something Scott's just told him, staring back at him with amusement dancing in his brilliant eyes. This time there's no invisible line between them, no sides, just a relief that's stitching them back together. With it comes a bout of courage that enables Gordon to wear a smile that does exist, that will exist again with the knowledge that they will be okay. That, somehow, normality will return, just like the day John walked into Gordon's hospital room and turned his recovery around.

He tugs off Virgil's sweatshirt, bundles it into a ball that he shoves under his head, and sighs as he leans back. Someone—Scott?—has pulled the curtains back, allowing the golden glow of sunset to stream through the window. Warm light spills across the whole room, fighting back against stubborn shadows. Light doesn't just shine through glass: it refracts into many hues, even in this room, in this city that's held so much darkness for Gordon and his family.

He's ready to watch as the light tries to reach each one of them. Today, he decides, the darkness will not win. Not as long as he can smile.


End file.
